Fragile
by homeric
Summary: Peace is fragile, as is love. LancelotOC. Complete!
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: nothing that you recognise belongs to me.**

**Ok dear readers, I promised a sequel to "Faithless" and here it is. Just like "Faithless" this will also have references to its prequel "Llynya's Song". I'll do my best to explain things without being too confusing for those that haven't read either, but some characters from both will make a reappearance for those with long memories. **

**The basics that will help to make things more understandable (hopefully):**

**Set post movie. Dagonet died in the fight upon the ice, but both Tristan and Lancelot survived the final battle. Arthur and Guinevere are recently and happily married (no Lancelot love triangle here), Britain has had its problems but the Woads, what is left of the Romans and all those inbetween are pretty much united and looking towards a peaceful future. Gawain has a son with his lover Llynya, and Tristan is loved and in love with Lucy, who is considerably younger and pregnant with his child. Galahad is involved with Kyrie, an ex prostitute from the fort. Both she and Lucy work for Vanora at the tavern. **

**This chapter is a bit short and throws up questions whether you've read the prequels or not. Sorry (well not** **really ; )**

"Ow." Lucy flinched away from the pin that had pierced her hip, and gave her friend a baleful glare. "This must be what it feels like for hedgehogs when they mate."

"I'm surprised that you put that much thought into the matter," Llynya replied calmly, tucking a pin into the corner of her mouth and carefully smoothing a fold of material. The young blonde girl she was helping was perched on a stool, draped in white cotton and none to pleased about being poked and prodded. Used to Lucy's fidgety nature, Llynya ignored the change in her mood as the minutes passed, and shoved her friend none to gently back down when she made to rise.

"Not like it's worth the bother anyway," Lucy groused, sitting back down on the stool. "Forget hedgehogs, I'm just a hog. I practically cause a solar eclipse every time I turn sideways; I'll have to stand in a hole so that people can see the priest."

"You look fine, you idiot," Llynya said with a martyred sigh. It was true that three months into her pregnancy Lucy's belly had started to swell, but the weight was becoming to the young girl. Lucy had never been slender: curvy and stubborn with her unruly hair and bright eyes, she often reminded Llynya of one of the hardy ponies that grazed on the hills. "I certainly don't see Tristan complaining," she said mildly.

"Tristan's not allowed to complain - he's the one who turned me into this… . _Thing_." Catching sight of Llynya rolling her eyes, Lucy bit back a giggle. "Sorry, sorry, I'm being a whinging cow aren't I?"

"Whinging sow actually," her friend pointed out. "Wait for another five months and then I'll let you complain. I'll lock you in the barn and wander off for a while, but I'm sure the chickens won't mind listening to you."

Lucy smiled, twisting obediently when Llynya turned her so that she could take in the dress at the waist. Biting her lip, she looked down at the still subtle curve of her stomach and frowned. She didn't mind getting fat, still couldn't stop touching the skin that shielded the tiny life that grew inside her, but everything seemed to have happened so fast, and sometimes she was terrified that she wasn't ready, wouldn't show he same gift for motherhood that her friends shared.

Llynya seemed to read her thoughts and patted the younger girl's belly reassuringly. "You'll be fine. You've got a good man who loves you and me and Vanora to help. Save your worries for the babe and pray that it's not a girl."

" I'd like a girl," Lucy said a little affronted. "She and Taran could play together and you know, maybe it'd turn into something more than friendship when they are a bit older."

"Exactly," Llynya replied with a mock shudder. "Tristan would probably behead anyone who tried to court his daughter, Gawain would kill anyone who hurt his son, and you know how Arthur hates disruption between his knights."

Lucy nodded and pretended to consider the answer. "True. We should not upset our king." With a sigh of relief, she slid off the stool that she had been perched on and stretched voluptuously.

"Enough of that." Gently slapping her friend's arm, the older girl swiftly put the neckline of the dress back where it had rested before. "I'll be quite happy to stick enough pins in you to make this a red dress if you don't take care of my handiwork. Let me unlace you and then you can stretch all you want."

"Sorry." Dropping her head meekly, Lucy let Llynya slide the ribbons through the holes in her wedding gown, and wriggled out of it with not a little relief. It wasn't that she didn't love the dress or appreciate Llynya's skill with a needle, but the sun was shining outside, Tristan was due back from a hunting expedition that evening, and the day was altogether too beautiful to be cooped up inside when there was fruit to be picked and lovers to be welcomed. Shimmying into her worn cotton dress and sighing in relief as the soft material slid over her skin, she gave Llynya a quick hug and thank-you, before heading towards the door.

Blinking in the sunlight, Lucy relished the feel of the sun against her face and sighed with satisfaction. Not long now. Not long before Tristan would be home. Knowing that Gawain and his fellow knights kept a careful eye on their brother's woman made her feel safer, but they couldn't make her quarters less empty or shrink her bed so that it felt less like a huge cold wasteland when he was not there to share it. Lost in thought, it took a moment for her to notice the limping figure of the lurcher making its way towards her. The animal was black as night, its eyes amber lights when the sun caught them, and although Lucy took a reflexive step backwards, her fear was swiftly overtaken by pity. Bones protruding through the rough fur, head low, it was obviously half starved and exhausted.

"Dog?" Crouching down, Lucy offered her hand and let the dog sniff it, smiling when it licked her palm. "Bet you're hungry aren't you ?" The dog did not reply unsurprisingly, but it seemed to recognise the kindness in the girl's voice and settled back on its bony flanks, tongue lolling hopefully.

"Llynya, look." Lucy scrambled to her feet when she heard the footsteps behind her. "This poor dog looks lost - do you have any scraps it could have? I'd take it home but…" Her voice trailed off when she saw the expression upon her friend's face. "What?"

Llynya shook her head and looked around worriedly. Walking towards the dog with no fear at all, she rubbed its dark head and cuddled it to her. The lurcher's tail thumped onto the ground, raising a cloud of dust, and it gave a low whine, trying to lick the face of the woman who held it. Utterly confused, Lucy watched the scene, attempting to make some sense of it.

"Llynya, do you know this dog?" The dark haired girl nodded, but her next words were directed at the animal and not her friend.

"Lark, sweetheart, where is your master?"


	2. Chapter 2

**Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

"Lark?" Lucy looked at the dog dubiously. Larks were dainty little birds, not half starved lurchers, but obviously Llynya knew the animal. "Who's his master?"

"Her," Llynya murmured absently, getting to her feet. "She's a she." The older girl glanced once again down the street as though she were expecting someone, and not particularly patient at the best of times, Lucy huffed in annoyance.

"Llynya, what is going on?"

"I don't know," the dark haired girl said honestly. "This dog belongs to a friend of mine, someone who saved my life once. He loves Lark, he'd never let her get like this." She bit her lip worriedly as she regarded the thin dog. "Something must have happened, I should..."

"Come on." Since Llynya was obviously thinking up various worst case scenarios for her friend, Lucy took charge. Grabbing Llynya's arm, she steered her towards the tavern. "Talk to Gawain, see what he says. Here dog." Snapping her fingers, she smiled when Lark got up and trotted at their heels. "'spect Vanora'll find you something good to eat."

It didn't take them long to reach the tavern. The evening rush had not yet started and the lunch mess had long since been cleared up, so there were very few people in the cool wooden building. Kyrie, one of the serving girls, looked up with interest when they arrived, sliding off a sleepy Galahad's lap.

"Found yourself a pet, Lucy?" she asked with a grin, crouching down to pet the dog. "Don't you have your hands full enough with Tristan's hawk?"

"She's not mine," Lucy said with a shrug. "Have you seen Gawain?"

"He's at the armoury I think. The armoury or the stables anyway."

Llynya nodded her thanks quickly and touched Kyrie's arm as she made to leave. "Would you keep an eye on Lark for a moment? She's sweet natured but I'm sure she's very hungry."

"Alright." Kyrie looked a little surprised at her normally placid friend's agitation and shot Lucy a look. The blonde merely shrugged and grabbed the dog's collar when it made to follow the departing girl.

"Easy dog, she'll be back soon." Kneeling awkwardly, Lucy looked up at Kyrie. "I don't suppose there's any stew left?"

"All gone." Looking around surreptitiously, Kyrie smiled. "The meat for tonight is still waiting to be chopped. I expect a bit donated to a worthy cause wouldn't be missed."

"I suppose not," Lucy grinned. "I won't tell Vanora if you don't."

"Right you are. And no telling tales on us," she called to Galahad, before scurrying towards the kitchen.

"What?" Galahad opened a sleepy eye and watched his lover disappear through the doorway. Not having paid any attention to the new arrivals, he gave Lucy a belligerent look. "What am I supposed to have done now…" His voice trailed off when he noticed the animal that she held. Squinting, he got to his feet. "Lark? Is that Lark? Where's Tom?"

"Who's Tom?" The dog got to her feet and wagged her tail at the sight of the young knight, but Lucy kept hold of its collar. "I found the dog wandering around. Llynya says she knows it - she's gone to get Gawain."

"Llynya does know the dog, as do I." Galahad rubbed the scrawny lurcher behind its ears, and let it lick his hand. "Tom is her master, I haven't seen him for over a year now, but where he goes Lark goes." He looked up as Kyrie hurried over, a plate of chopped up of venison in her hands.

"Here now sweetheart," she cooed, putting down the food. The dog took only a second before devouring the meat, licking the plate clean and regarding its new friends with hopeful eyes.

"I'll get you more in a minute," Kyrie promised. "Let that settle first." Settling onto her haunches she looked at Galahad curiously. "How do you know the dog?"

The young man sighed and smiled as though he remembered a private joke. "Almost a year ago we were sent, well Arthur was sent, to a village about forty miles north of here. The land owner was a Roman with ties to the pope, however it turned out that he was more interested in making alliances with the Saxons."

"What was he, stupid?" Lucy interrupted incredulously, swiftly falling silent when Galahad glared at her.

"He was Roman, what do you think?" Galahad continued. "To cut a very long story short, Gawain met Llynya there and after we left the village was attacked. Tom was a hunter, he saved Llynya's life."

"Gawain left Llynya? Kyrie rolled her eyes and ignored Galahad's huff of annoyance. "Now _that's_ stupid."

"He's a knight.," Lucy couldn't resist remarking. "Sorry, sorry." Giving her best doe-eyed look of contrition, she humbly asked the increasingly irritated young man to continue.

"As I was saying," Galahad said tersely, "Tom saved Llynya, took her to our encampment and we were going to escort her to a village that Tom had ties with as we were heading that way anyway. The village had a few problems, Gawain came to his senses and Llynya came back here, but Tom stayed at the village."

"Tom stayed at the village that Llynya had family in? Why?" Lucy asked, a little confused.

"No, Tom had family in the village," Galahad said in exasperation. "He stayed because his sister needed someone to look after her and the village wanted him as part of their council. Didn't Llynya tell you anything of this before?"

"She did," Lucy said sheepishly. "I kept asking her, and when Vanora got that mead in - you know the barrel that made old Joey blind for a week after he had eight pints of it - she told me."

"And what did she say?" Kyrie asked curiously.

"I don't know." Lucy looked embarrassed and shrugged as though in apology. "It was more than a year ago - we were testing the mead for Vanora and we talked and talked. Then things were blurry and she threw up and I don't know what happened inbetween. But I don't want to ask her again incase she thinks that I don't listen to her."

Galahad listened to the little speech in utter confusion. Give him his infuriating, annoying, fellow knights any day; at least they didn't speak in what Lancelot described with dead seriousness as "woman's tongue." Glancing sideways, he saw Kyrie give him an equally confused look and amended the thought. He understood the slender girl with eyes that had seen too much, and she in turn understood him. Lucy, however… The gods only knew what went on in either of their heads, but Tristan and his young fiancée were as different as night and day, and he was hard pressed to think of what the conversations between them must be like.

"And now this Tom is missing," Kyrie said thoughtfully. Lark looked up at the mention of her master's name, and the girl stroked her head. "It could be anything. He could have fallen and sent her for help, she could have run off and got lost. He could have…" she gave Galahad an apologetic look. "How old was Tom? It only takes one outbreak of fever…"

"You're right." Galahad brushed his hand over her shoulder before rising. "We don't know anything for certain yet." Stretching, he watched Llynya and Gawain approach the tavern, Lark trotting over to meet them, and tried to smile. However many rational explanations presented themselves, he could not shake the feeling of dread that gripped his stomach, and from a brief glance at Gawain's face, he knew that his brother knight felt it too.

* * *

_It wasn't like she hadn't seen blood before_, Rowan thought to herself with the tiny part of her brain that still functioned. She had pricked her fingers when she was sewing, watched livestock slaughtered with barely a wince. But this… there was a smell to it, an almost living presence that made a mockery of the death that had spawned it. Shifting slightly, she felt her dress stick to the coagulating mess that she sat in and probably would have vomited were there anything left in her stomach. Trying once again, her fingers skittered over Alyce's cheek, the long lashes brushing her fingertips, and this time she found the courage to close the eyelids over her sister's blank gaze. _Not going to find yourself a warrior at Hadrian's wall now are you Aly? _She wiped her fingers absently on the bodice of her dress. _Not going to do anything at all ever again._

A jackdaw perched with a cry and a flutter of black feathers on a nearby branch, and Rowan swore at it. She had heard tales of birds pecking out the eyes of dead men and women. First the birds, then the wolves, then the creeping insects that devoured what was left. With a slightly hysterical giggle, she looked at the slaughter that surrounded her and got to her feet. Twenty dead - no make that twenty one. The blonde girl from Niton had been pregnant, and the babe should be counted, born or not. One body would have been a struggle to bury, but this? What to do? Run, run away and hide as she had before? Leave her sweet sister's broken body to the animals and save her own skin? The Saxons might come back if she stayed, and with a sick guilt, Rowan knew that there was nothing that she could do for her companions now. She picked up her pack and slung it over her shoulder. From the looks of things the Saxon raid had left nothing that could help her; the horses were gone, the provisions taken. She alone was untouched and why? Because she had drank more of her share of the waterskin and hadn't wanted to relieve herself anywhere near the two young men that travelled with them. A stupid, prissy little thing that had her sister rolling her eyes and warning her not to go too far because it wasn't safe.

_Not safe. _Brushing her hair from her eyes, she fought down her emotions and tried to turn away. This wasn't supposed to happen - not any more. Most of the Saxons were dead or gone. Arthur ruled the land - hadn't he led his knights and the Woads to victory at Baden hill? Briton was united if not safe, but then what was safe? Travel in groups, be careful, listen, watch, stay alert. Wise words that all in Briton knew and that she and her party had followed. _No rules for a group of murderous Saxons though_, Rowan thought to herself (and they had to be Saxons, she realised, for even in their little village there were tales of the pale haired savages). _No rules in the face of such violent hatred. _She didn't want to walk away, but she forced herself to do so. There was no use in tarrying, and Hadrian's wall couldn't be too far. With luck she might stumble upon a village and send out a warning , find people that would be willing to come back with her and bury the dead.

"I'm sorry, " she said to the tangle of bodies. It was a pathetic little token of regret, but Rowan said it anyway. At the back of her mind she remembered her sister bemoaning her broken heart because Timothy, the boy that she admired, did not return her affections. _Not true though, _she thought with perfect, exquisite clarity. There was still an arrow piercing her sister's chest. _Did that hurt more? _She wondered. _Was it a quick death, did she wonder why her sister hadn't tried to save her?_

Taking one step backwards and then another, she gave a yelp when the body behind her gave a hoarse cough. Rowan looked around nervously; she had checked all the bodies for signs of life and found none, but it seemed that her hurried ministrations had missed someone.

It took a moment to find the source of the cough. Half buried under the body of a Saxon warrior, the grey-haired man was hard to see and obviously did not have the strength to pull himself free.

"Please, Sir, wait a moment." Rocking back on her heels and grunting with the effort, Rowan managed to drag the corpse away from the man below and dropped to her knees beside him.

"Hello?" she asked tentatively. The man was soaked in blood, but what was due to the dead Saxon and what was from his own injuries she wasn't sure. Healing had never been something she had any knowledge of, but even she knew that you shouldn't move a person without finding out where they were injured. "Where do you hurt?"

The man gave a short laugh and winced at the effort, his blue eyes hazy with pain but still amused.

"Just had a bloody great Saxon lying on top of me - where doesn't?"

"Sorry." Rowan gave a half-hearted and entirely unsuccessful attempt at a smile. "I mean where hurts most? Can I.." She grimaced as she saw the twisted angle of the grey haired man's right leg. He noted her expression and lay back on the ground, panting harshly as the movement jolted his injuries.

"Nothing you can do girl."

Rowan nodded and untied the waterskin from around her waist. Reaching for the middle-aged man's head, she gave him an apologetic look for the liberties she was taking, and tucked his head onto her knees, dribbling some of the water into his mouth. The man swallowed gratefully before motioning that he had had enough.

"Best save that girl, you'll be needing it."

Rowan followed his suggestion and replaced the stopper, understanding but not liking the reasoning behind his words.

"I can't leave you here," she said quietly. "I could make a splint and a crutch and we could…"

"We could both die for no reason." The man fixed Rowan with a steely gaze and studied her with what might have been amusement had circumstances been different. "Get on with you girl. I've had enough of rescuing pretty maidens. Do you know where we are?"

"Near Hadrian's wall?"

"That's right." The man bit his lip to stifle a cry of pain when he shifted and nodded towards the sky above. "We're about ten miles away. "See that star?"

Rowan looked up at the sky, towards the north star that was peering shyly beneath the crescent moon. The sky was barely darkening, but even so the moon and the first stars were visible. "I see it."

"Follow it. That'll take you in the direction you need to go."

"To Hadrian's wall?" Rowan hesitated, unsure whether to follow the man's instructions or stay. She and her sister had joined the rag-tag group only yesterday. She didn't know the man, but she couldn't leave him to die.

"Get going girl," the man growled. "Nothing here but death for you. "

"Alright." Rowan got to her feet and hesitated for a moment before untying her cloak and laying it over the injured man. "I'll come back, I promise."

He smiled and regarded her wearily. "What's your name lass?"

"Rowan," she said quietly.

"Can you see a dog here Rowan?" the man's voice was growing weaker, and she tried to think of a suitable reply. Certainly there were no dead dogs here - that she would have noticed. Dimly she remembered a skinny lurcher nuzzling her knee and scolding her sister for giving it half her precious bread, but that had been long ago - or perhaps it was yesterday?

"I'm sorry," she said awkwardly. "Perhaps it ran away."

"Best hope she has." The man's eyelids fluttered closed before he opened them with an effort. "If you get to Hadrain's wall then find a girl called Llynya. She is the knight Gawain's love. You can trust her. Tell her Tom sent you." His breath came with difficulty and Rowan nodded, grabbing his hand and squeezing it briefly.

"I'll find her, I'll find help. Stay alive." Turning, she looked for and found the bright light of the evening star. Ten miles was a long way to run, but nothing compared to the distance that she had already travelled, and this Tom was depending on her. Tom who she didn't know and had barely spoken to. Tom who she could help, and she _would_, she thought fiercely, she wouldn't let him die. Scrambling down a slope and racing through the trees, Rowan ran as though her life depended on it, and although she did not know it, in a way it did.

**A/N. Sorry for the delay in this chapter - won't bore you with the details, but suffice to say that life has annoying way of bringing up problems when all I want to do is jump up and down like an obnoxious cartoon character wailing "I wanna write, I wanna write!" Nevermind, here is chapter two and thank you, thank you, thank you to everyone who reviewed the first chapter. Joking aside it meant a lot to me, and I'm incredibly touched that people want to read more of Llynya, Lucy and Kyrie. Reviews good or bad are much appreciated should you wish to tell me what you think. : )**


	3. Chapter 3

-1**A/N: Nothing you recognise belongs to me (Gods, how many times have I written that now I wonder? )**

Rowan was not particularly fit - as a seamstress back in her home village she had never had cause to run around much, but she forced her feet faster and faster , the breath burning in her lungs, her mind pushing the pain away. The spring growth did not make her progress easy; young ferns threatened to trip her, leafy branches slapped at her face, but Rowan tucked her head down, gripped her skirts and determinedly forced her way through the narrow trail. It was the hawthorn tree that proved her undoing. Wrenching her sleeve free from the sharp thorns, she did not see notice one of its protruding roots and caught her foot in it, slamming into the ground hard enough to knock the breath from her body. For a moment she lay stunned, fighting to drag air back into her lungs. The sky was a darkening blue tinged with rose - unwelcome proof that the sun was setting, and closing her eyes, Rowan took a deep breath and prepared to rise. When she opened them again the air left her body violently for the second time in two minutes.

There was a man standing over her. His approach had been silent (_although perhaps she just hadn't heard it over her laboured breathing, _Rowan thought blearily), and he watched her with dispassionate brown eyes. Rowan didn't do anything but blink at him with wide eyes, frozen like a rabbit before a fox. She took in the details of his appearance as though she were a stranger looking upon the scene: Sharp features, shaggy partially braided hair. He was dressed in a worn tunic and breeches, and these along with the bow on his back would have marked him as a hunter were it not for the strange sword at his waist and something about the way he stood so still and watchful. _Dangerous, _Rowan realised, her heart lurching in her chest from a seeming standstill and beating a tattoo against her ribs. Perhaps she would yet join her sister in the afterlife today. He stared at her for a moment before reaching out a hand . Doing nothing but stare at it blankly, Rowan flinched when the man gave a grunt of irritation.

"I won't harm you, girl. Get up."

She gave a feeble attempt at rising, trying to avoid him, and with an annoyed sigh the man grabbed her arm and hauled her to her feet.

"Where did you come from? Are you hurt?" His voice was brusque, the words spoken with an accent that she could not place, but for some strange reason they calmed her a little. He couldn't be a Saxon, and if he was a hunter bent on raping and killing her then he surely wouldn't bother asking about her welfare.

"I'm going to the wall. Hadrian's wall, " Rowan stammered. "My.. Friend is hurt. We were attacked by Saxons, they…" The man's fingers tightened painfully on her arm and Rowan yelped before falling silent. He ignored her for a moment, his eyes scanning the woodland around them.

"How far? how many?" The man asked curtly, turning his attention back to her. Rowan swallowed and cringed at the intensity of the amber eyes upon her and hurriedly sifted though her memory.

"Not far. Maybe… a mile, a mile and a half? I'm not sure. There were about twenty of them I think. They left when everyone was… when they were…" She looked at the ground miserably. "I'm sorry, it happened too fast to be sure. Please, my friend is hurt, he needs help. Is there a village nearby… anything?"

The man studied the girl swiftly, noting the blood on her dress, the trembling of her body beneath his fingers. She couldn't be much older than his betrothed he realised, and he tried to make himself a little less intimidating; letting go of her arm and giving an attempt at a smile that had her cringing backwards.

"My name is Tristan," he said quietly. "I am one of King Arthur's knights, you need not fear me." The girl looked utterly unconvinced by his last words, and Tristan mentally swore to himself. Why couldn't it have been Gawain who had found her, or Galahad with his puppy dog eyes? He needed information from the chit, and from the looks of things she was waiting for him to gut her like a rabbit. "I promise that I will help your friend, but you must trust me. If there are Saxons nearby then it is important that you do as I say. Do you understand?" She nodded mutely, her eyes rising and then sliding away from his gaze. "What's your name, girl?"

"Rowan," she whispered.

Nodding, Tristan gave a low whistle, and the girl watched with wide eyes as within moments a hawk swooped down from seemingly nowhere to rest upon his wrist. It shook its feathers, regarded her with a disinterested golden eye for a moment, and after Tristan had muttered a couple of words in a strange tongue to it, swept up into the sky again. It did not take long before the bird was but a speck in the darkening sky, and Rowan turned when the man beside he took her arm more gently than before, nudging her to continue down the path.

"But he's back that way," Rowan protested. "I won't leave him."

"I'm not leaving him." Pushing her forward a little more forcefully, they had taken only a dozen steps before turning a sharp bend in the path. Tethered beside a large elderflower bush a big bay horse watched them approach with mild interest, the spray of white flowers sticking out of its muzzle giving a slightly comical look to the imposing animal.

Tristan muttered something in his native tongue and unhitched the horse, tossing away the remains of his mount's snack as he did so. "Can you ride? He asked the girl who hovered nervously behind him.

"A little bit." Rowan looked at the gelding with more than a little apprehension. When she had been a child she had sat upon her mother's old grey shire horse and been led around, but that had been back when they had still had the farm and she was fairly certain that it wouldn't be the same as riding this beautiful glossy creature. Tristan noted her look and bit back a sigh. "Yes" obviously was far more of a "no" when it came to questioning the girl's equestrian skills, but with any luck she would be too preoccupied with being frightened of the horse to worry about him or the dangerous situation that they were both in. Taking her hand, he led her to the horse and made to boost her up into the saddle.

"Wait." Stiffening, she looked at him with a flicker of stubbornness. "What's his name?"

"Shay," he replied shortly.

"Hello Shay." She gave the horse a tentative pat before obediently helping Tristan slide her onto the saddle. Every muscle in her body tensed when she felt the warm weight of the knight swing up behind her, and she shifted precariously onto the horse's withers, attempting to prevent any part of her body from touching his. Tristan muttered something fierce and unintelligible, and with a yelp, Rowan found herself pulled backwards and clamped in place with an iron hard arm. "If I wanted your body I could have taken it by now, woman," he bit out. "If you want to help your friend then falling off every two minutes isn't the best way to do it."

"Alright." Gripping the pommel of the saddle, Rowan did her best to relax a little. It wasn't just that she was more than a little afraid of the dark knight - being in such close proximity to a man, any man, was a new and not entirely welcome experience, especially given the circumstances. Such thoughts were driven from her head when Tristan pulled his horse around and nudged it into a canter. Shay was a beautiful horse and his gait was smooth, but perched uncomfortably and tensing every time she was knocked back against its rider, her concentration was entirely focussed on both trying not to fall off and keeping track of where they were. As it was, she needn't have worried about them missing the scene of the slaughter. Shay snorted and slowed to a trot, Tristan easing him into a walk as they rounded a corner of the path . Rowan clung on tighter when his arm was removed from her waist, and although she did not turn her head to see it, the scrape of metal as he unsheathed his sword was unmistakable. The glade she had fled from was no longer silent. Several crows rose from the bodies with a cacophony of caws and beating black wings, and Rowan bit back a whimper of anger and despair. She had seen this once; seen the death , the blood, the mindless slaughter, but faced with it once again, she froze, and it took a moment to realise that Tristan had dismounted and was calling her name sharply. Mentally shaking herself, she slid sideways, unhooking her leg from the saddle and letting him lower her to the ground. Tristan was tense, his eyes scanning the surrounding trees.

"Where is your friend?" he asked without taking his eyes from the forest. "Quickly now."

Rowan licked her lips nervously and took several steps forward. _Next to the dead Saxon, _she thought. _Behind Alyce. _The rich red of her sister's hair, always a source of envy to her dark haired sibling, shone in the dying light, and dragging her eyes away Rowan ran forward.

"Tom?" She fell to her knees beside the prone form of the man, searching frantically for any sign of life. "I came back, I brought help," she said, the words tumbling out almost incoherantly. He didn't move or open his eyes, and with a shaking finger Rowan felt for a pulse. Nothing. The skin was warm but there was no thrum of blood beneath her fingertips. "I'm sorry", she whispered miserably. "I…" Her words were abruptly cut off when the body in front of her suddenly coughed and turned bleary eyes to her. It took a moment for him to focus on her, but when he did he groaned wearily. "In the name of the Gods girl, will you run before I take a knife to you myself?"

"You haven't got a pulse," Rowan whispered with wide eyes. _Was he perhaps one of the demons that Alyce had whispered about when they tried to scare each other, was he perhaps something worse?_

"You're looking in the wrong place," he murmured. "Try up and to the left." Rowan slid her fingers over the rough skin of Tom's throat and almost laughed in relief when she felt the steady thump of blood under the stubble.

"Sorry," she whispered apologetically. "I brought help, one of the king's knights no less. You're going to be alright."

"One of the knights?" Tom half raised himself from the ground, only to be pushed back down by Tristan's gentle hand. Rowan looked at the knight in confusion. Really, he shouldn't move so quietly, it was most disconcerting.

"I would say well met, Tom, but.."

"You were never one for false words," Tom finished for him. "Not that you've ever been much for words anyway have you friend?" He lay his head back on the ground, obviously exhausted from the effort of speaking.

"Not much use for them when scouting," Tristan acknowledged, running a practiced eye over the older man. As a fighter who was often sent far away from civilization he had by necessity been taught the basics of healing, but even at first glance he realised that his friend needed to get to more experienced help quickly. "The girl thinks it was Saxons that attacked you."

"She's right." Tom winced as the scout used one of his smaller blades to cut through his tunic and carefully checked his ribs for breaks. "Small raiding party, but well organised. Not the first time I've seen their like." Tristan looked up sharply, but noticing the pallor of Tom's skin and the lines of pain and exhaustion etched upon his face, he asked no further questions. Running his hand down the twisted line of the injured man's leg, he grimaced and got to his feet, striding over to Rowan who was crouched a couple of paces away. Muttering briefly into her ear he pulled her to her feet and led her over to Tom before walking away. Rowan dropped to her knees, resting one hand on the man's shoulder and giving him a hesitant smile. Neither of them said anything and after only a moment Tristan had returned carrying a short sturdy stick.

"It's going to be alright," Rowan whispered as confidently as she could. From the corner of her eye she could see Tristan running long gentle fingers down the older man's leg. At his nod, she gave a silent apology and bunching her skirt into her hand she shoved it against Tom's mouth, his muffled roar not masking the sickening scrape of bones being realigned when the scout wrenched the broken limb back into place. "Oh my goddess," she whispered, tugging the cloth from his face when the man went limp. "He isn't…"

Tristan knocked her hand away and found a pulse with far more deftness than Rowan had.

"He's unconscious. Let's do what we can before he awakens." She nodded and helped him tear the dead Saxon's tunic into strips before binding the stick to Tom's injured leg as a makeshift splint. Getting the unconscious man up onto Shay was not easy, but eventually they managed it. Boosting Rowan onto the saddle behind the unconscious man with instructions to hold onto him, Tristan grabbed his horse's reins with one hand, kept the other near his sword, and did not take his eyes from the forest around them.

**A/N Grumpy Tristan lol.. For some reason I can't imagine him relishing the idea of being a knight in shining armour to anyone. Thanks very, very much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter (hi Kim, thanks for the email ), it was very much appreciated - you lot pretty much let me know if this is worth continuing so I am indebted to you for that.**

**This chapter was Unbeta'd by Mulder, my black cat who has decided that my computer keyboard is omg!evil! And must be destroyed, preferably when I'm typing. Either that or she's an aspiring writer. I've told her that should she wish to write her own fan fiction then she is welcome to do so, but so far she has declined.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

"They'll find Tom," Lucy said with a confidence she did not entirely feel. Llynya was obviously worried about her friend, and as the hours went by she herself was becoming increasingly concerned with regard to Tristan's welfare. What if there was something out there in the woods ? What if there was another sorceress bent on destroying Arthur's alliance? What if Brigid's demon creatures had come back? What if… mentally shaking herself, she dragged her attention back to Llynya who had apparently asked her something if the questioning look upon her face was any indication. "I'm sorry, what did you say?"

"I said, do you know where Kyrie is?" Llynya repeated patiently. "Vanora will be here in a minute and we should get the stew on."

"The stew." Lucy looked blank for a moment - there had been so much going on in the past few moments that she had forgotten that the tavern was due to start serving meals in the next hour or so. "Oh, the _stew. _I didn't think to…" Turning, she scanned the tavern. "She's getting water from the well I think. Galahad's with her."

"Helping her no doubt," Llynya said dryly. She had caught Galahad "helping" Kyrie before, and unsurprisingly his presence seemed rather a bad influence on the usually hard working girl.

"Same way that Gawain helped you in the stables last week, I expect," Lucy said mildly, guessing her friend's thoughts. "Come on, we might as well keep busy."

Llynya had the good grace to blush and followed the younger girl to the kitchen. Gawain had gone to speak to Arthur and there was little that she could really do. It was likely that a search party would be sent out to find Tom, but that required planning, and the scout who was yet to return. Glancing at Lucy, she read her expression and inwardly sympathised. Tristan could take care of himself and would likely return at any moment, but logic never had much of a hand in love, and doubtless Lucy was imagining a thousand endings to their story that were in no way happy.

"He'll be alright, love," she said, placing a comforting hand on Lucy's shoulder. "He'll be back before..." Her words died away as the unmistakable clatter of hoof beats signalled the arrival of a horse in the courtyard behind them.

"Tristan!" Lucy's eyes widened, and turning, she scampered outside, Llynya following close behind her.

The big bay horse was blessedly familiar, the man who held its reins even more so, and with no thought to propriety, Lucy ran over to Tristan and kissed him soundly. The scruffy knight did not object - pushing her back for a moment he ran his eyes over her as though to check that she was still in one piece before crushing him to her. Llynya barely noticed: her attention was caught by the man lying across Shay's saddle.

"Tom!" Hastening over, she placed a tentative hand on the unconscious man's shoulder, brushing his grey hair from his face with the other. "Tristan?" She looked at the scout in confusion. "What happened? Where did you find him?" A flicker of movement behind the horse made her look up, and she amended the last question. "Them. Where did you find _them_."

"Forest," the scout said with typical economy of words. "Jols?" He let Lucy go and turned to the man who had hurried over to them. "Get Brennus, I'll take Tom to the healing rooms."

Jols nodded, obviously a little surprised at the familiar way that Tristan referred to the injured man that his horse carried, but asked no further questions. Beckoning forward the stable boy who watched the scene with wide eyes, he handed Shay's reins to him once the scout had pulled Tom from the saddle and over his shoulder. "Take care of the horse," he ordered, before accompanying the scout towards the building where help could be found. Lucy looked at Llynya and shrugged before following the three men to the healing rooms. Llynya made to join them, but a glance at the girl who was trying to make herself as inconspicuous as she could, made her hesitate. Lark was still tied up by the kitchen - she should take the dog to her master, and it appeared that Tom was not the only person that needed help.

Smiling kindly, Llynya studied the new visitor. The girl was perhaps in her early twenties, although with her frightened eyes and obvious confusion, she could have passed for much younger. _Pretty enough, _Llynya mused, or at least she would be after a bath and a change of clothing.

"Hello," she said softly, walking over to the girl. "Are you hurt?"

"Hurt?" the girl glanced at her bloodied dress and shook her head. "The blood isn't mine. It's my…" Her voice choked and fighting back the tears she attempted a smile. "Do you think Tom will be alright? We got here as fast as we could. Tristan said he would be, and I don't think, I mean I…"

"It's alright." Llynya put a comforting hand on the girl's shoulder, effectively silencing her babbling. "You've had quite a time of it, haven't you? Come on." Steering her gently but firmly, she led the girl to the tavern and settled her at one of the tables. "What's your name sweetheart?"

"Rowan." The girl seemed to recover herself slightly and gave Llynya a shy smile.

"Hello Rowan," the older girl said with a smile. "I'm Llynya. Let's see if we can't get you something to eat and drink."

"That would be wonderful," Rowan replied gratefully. "I don't know how long it's been…" Her new friend's introduction suddenly registered, and she looked up with narrowed eyes. "You're Llynya? Tom told me to seek you out . He said that you were the…" she blushed a little. Tom had said the love of the knight Gawain, but what did that mean? For all she knew the kind girl was a prostitute. "He said that you knew one of Arthur's knights," she said carefully.

Llynya noted Rowan's discomfort and bit back a smile. She hadn't had time to inform her old friend of her new status, and given Tom's straightforward way of speaking, she wondered what he had told the poor girl about her.

"Gawain is my husband," she said gently. "We've been married almost three months and have a son together."

"Oh." Rowan gave a genuine smile. "That's nice, I mean well done." She inwardly winced at the inane comment, but Llynya took no offence.

"Thank you." Her attention caught by several people entering the tavern, she smiled. "Speaking of knights… Gawain! Lancelot!" she called out to the two men walking over to them. "Keep an eye on Rowan for a moment if you would, the poor thing just arrived with Tom and Tristan."

"So we've heard," Gawain said, giving the girl a friendly smile and patting his wife on the bottom as she hurried off towards the kitchen.

"Enough of that," Llynya scolded, knocking his hand away. "And be nice," she warned to both of them, although her eyes narrowed at Lancelot when she did so.

"I'm always nice," the dark knight muttered, sitting down beside his fellow knight and running his eyes over the girl sat opposite them. _Too thin, too nervous for his tastes, _he thought with the automatic appraisal of a man who considered himself something of an expert when it came to female flesh, but noting the way she did not dare look at either him or Gawain, he took pity on her.

"You've been travelling with Tristan? I hope he hasn't put you off knights in general - some of us are rather nice, " he said with a smile.

The girl glanced up, looked horrified, and returned her gaze to the table.

"Sir Tristan was very kind," she muttered. "He probably saved both mine and Tom's lives."

"That's our scout," Lancelot smirked. " What he lacks in conversation he makes up with chivalry, although why he should be the only one to rescue pretty maidens is beyond me." The girl blushed, and he tried not to grin. She wasn't really his type, but she would probably need a bed for the night, and it might as well be his. He could help Llynya sort out something more permanent for her in the morning. Ignoring Gawain's disapproving glare, he smiled reassuringly when Rowan darted a glance at him. "Were you travelling alone?" He asked. From the looks of things she had been, but he wasn't particularly keen on fighting off an irate husband or father should he decide to bed the chit.

It was the wrong thing to say.

She met his eyes with a fierceness that he would not have thought her capable of.

"No," she said tightly. "I wasn't travelling alone. Saxons came and…" her voice wavered a little, but she tightened her fingers on the table and did not look away. "Saxons killed my sister, killed my friends, tried to kill Tom."

"Saxons?" Gawain leant forward and glanced at Lancelot worriedly. "Are you sure? There are bandits in the forest, thieves and the like. Could you have been mistaken?"

Rowan shook her head vehemently. "No. No, I know what I saw. There was no reason to be so brutal, to…" Her voice trailed off, and this time she did drop her gaze. "My sister's body is still in the forest. With the birds and the wolves and the…" She visibly shook herself before continuing. "I'll make sure Tom is going to be alright and then I'm going back for her. I won't leave her there." She looked at the two big men as though waiting for them to try and contradict her.

"As you wish," Lancelot said slowly, "but not alone. Rest, eat. Arthur will want to speak with you, and you won't do anyone any good by running off and getting yourself killed."

"I didn't do anyone any good by standing aside and watching people get slaughtered," Rowan retorted bitterly. Her anger had taken precedence over her shyness, and it took a moment before she remembered who she was speaking to. "I'm sorry, I spoke out of turn," she said with careful politeness.

"There is no need to apologise," Gawain reassured her. "I'm sorry for your loss." Getting up, he clapped his friend on the shoulder. "I should let Arthur know what has happened." Smiling sadly at Rowan he made to touch her cheek as a gesture of comfort, but withdrew his hand when she flinched away. "I'll find out how Tom is. For now stay here. Lancelot and Llynya will take care of you."

The girl nodded and summoned a half smile, but although she thanked Llynya when she placed a plate of bread and cheese before her, she kept her eyes down and did not look at the dark knight who watched her with subtle curiosity.

**A/N. Lancelot is a bit of a cad in this chapter and Rowan is a bit of a wet blanket. They've both got a few changes coming their way so please try not to hate them too much lol. Thanks very much to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter. Shiny new FFNet! I like the way that it now tells you how many stories you've written at the top of your profile page - presumably that's for people who write fan fiction in their sleep and are confused when they log in find a whole load of ill advised Harry Potter/Little house On The Prairie crossovers on their story list (apologies if anyone reading has actually written one - hell please send me the link if you have). Mulder thanks everyone who took an interest in her (well actually she buggered off back to bed, but pretend she did something cute and appreciative anyway : )**


	5. Chapter 5

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

**There is smut in this chapter my poppets, so usual rules apply. PM me and I'll send you a pg version if smut isn't your thing, otherwise I guess it's up to your discretion. There are a couple of references to "Llynya's Song" in this chapter - I'm trying to keep the story as separate as I can, but it's very difficult when the characters and their back stories are all so intertwined. If you want a short summary of "Llynya's Song" and/or "Faithless" then send me a message and I'll pop it over - I appreciate the fact that they are rather long stories to get through if this is the first of the trilogy that you've read.**

Llynya watched Rowan eat with the careful yet urgent focus of someone who was wrestling the urge to simply wolf down their food, and felt a pang of pity for the girl; after all, it was not so long ago that Tom had rescued her from the burning remains of her village, and ultimately led her into a new life. Such transitions were hard at best, and she at least had had Gawain with her, although he had been as much a complication as an ally at first. Gawain had returned to say that Tom had awoken briefly before falling unconscious once again, before hurrying off with Galahad, but it seemed that the news was not good. Tristan had done the best he could, but infection had set into the hunter's wounds, and for the moment it was a case of waiting to see what would happen. _Saxons_. Tom had said that Saxons had done this to him, had killed the people that had been travelling with him and Rowan. Llynya chewed her lip worriedly, looking out towards the dark courtyard and watching a man light the braziers one by one, until the rough stone glowed and flickered beneath the firelight. She had seen the devastation that Saxons could inflict twice before, and had no desire to witness it again. With a sigh, she stretched wearily. Her breasts were heavy and tender, and she knew that it was time to feed her son. Vanora's sisters were kind and adored looking after their surrogate "nephew," but her heart hurt at being away from him, no matter what her duties were, and once Rowan was settled and Vanora had arrived she would be off. The prospect of trouble made her want to gather up her son and her husband and hide them away somewhere safe, _but that won't happen, _she thought to herself. _Not when Gawain was likely to be at the forefront of any battle. _Two people walked swiftly across the courtyard, and she smiled at the couple. Tristan's angular grace and Lucy's bright hair were unmistakable, and she raised a hand in acknowledgement. Lucy gave her a grin, Tristan a barely perceptible nod, before both of them disappeared to the knight's quarters.

A wet nose against her hand brought her out of her reverie, and looking down, Llynya smiled at Lark. The dog had shown none of the girl's politeness when it came to eating, and even after two bowls of meat, still looked hopeful for more.

"Enough for now," she chastised gently, stroking the shaggy animal's head. "People are going to be unhappy enough with the stew as it is - if I give you any more we'll end up serving broth."

"Shouldn't talk to animals, Llynya," Kyrie said, wandering out of the kitchen. "Next thing you know they'll be answering back."

"I've had better conversations with her than some of the men in here," Llynya replied with a grin. "_She_ doesn't try and grope me either."

"True enough," Kyrie acknowledged, placing the bowl of water she had been carrying onto the floor. "Come on Lark, bet you're thirsty aren't you?"

"You were saying?" Llynya raised her eyebrows in amusement.

"It was an order not a chat," Kyrie retorted, brushing off her skirts. "Anyway, the dog isn't complaining." Indeed she wasn't: the two girls watched as the lurcher lapped up the water eagerly, before raising her dripping muzzle and regarding them with soulful brown eyes.

"I should take her to Tom," Llynya said with a sigh. "I don't imagine she'll settle without him, and he'll be wondering where she is if he's woken up again." Kyrie glanced at her friend quickly. The unspoken _"that's if he's still alive," _flickered in the silence between them, but the younger girl merely nodded and bit her lip thoughtfully.

"What about the girl? She's going to need somewhere to stay, and unless she sleeps on the floor next to Taran - and I really don't suggest that, as love him as I do, he's not exactly quiet - or by Galahad and I, and I don't see that going down well either, I can't think of anywhere."

Llynya sighed, racking her brain for a solution. Vanora had little enough room as it was, and although there were a couple of rooms free in the soldier's barracks, sending the obviously traumatised young woman to live with several dozen uncouth men would be an act of cruelty. There was only one alternative that came to mind, and that itself had problems. "Gawain's room is still free in the knights' quarters," she said slowly.

"I'd forgotten about that." Kyrie looked momentarily cheered, before narrowing her eyes. "Isn't it next to .."

"Lancelot's." Llynya interrupted her friend and gave a reassuring smile. "Don't worry, I 'll have a word with him first."

Kyrie gave the older girl a dubious look as she walked away, but called out to the gaggle of children that were loitering near the tavern, obviously keen to catch a look at the new arrivals. "Eight! Can you come here for a moment?"

A red-haired girl of about ten years trotted forward, glancing smugly at her friends and waiting self-importantly for instructions.

"Can you go to Lynette and tell her to make Gawain's room ready for a visitor?" Eight nodded, her eyes sliding curiously to Rowan who had finished her meal and seemed to be attempting not to look at Lancelot who sat across from her.

"Who's she then? 'that her dog?" She reached down to pet Lark and Kyrie sighed in irritation. "I've got biscuits baking, I'll save you a couple but you'll have to be quick - you know how fast they go."

The young girl looked up with wide eyes before scampering out of the tavern and almost racing towards Lynette's room. The woman in charge of the servants was kind enough, but speed was not her forte - indeed were it not for the fact that Arthur was fond of the woman, she would have been replaced long ago. Biscuits were a serious business and there was no time to be lost.

* * *

Llynya stepped out of the way as Eight ran past and made her way towards Rowan and Lancelot. The girl looked very tired and was obviously bewildered at her new surroundings, but she gave an attempt at a smile when the older woman cleared the table. With a reassuring wink, Llynya picked up the now empty bowl and tray from the table, and nodded to Lancelot.

"Would you mind bringing the jug into the kitchen for me? I don't think that I can manage it by myself."

Lancelot looked at her in utter confusion. He'd seen his brother knight's wife carrying several trays loaded with tankards on a near daily basis - an empty jug and bowl were hardly a challenge. Llynya caught his puzzled look and gave him a glare, and Lancelot surrendered himself to the implausible ruse.

"Always happy to oblige a lady," he said gallantly. "I'll be back in a moment," he added to Rowan who seemed too exhausted to care much one way or the other. Following Llynya into the kitchen, he placed the jug onto the table and raised an eyebrow at the dark-haired girl.

"Are you not feeling well Llynya?" he asked, playing along with her game. "You did not seem so fragile this morning."

"Enough of your nonsense," she said sternly. "I wanted to talk to you about Rowan."

"Rowan?" Lancelot regarded the woman in front of him with confusion. "You told me to keep an eye on her and I have. Apart from looking as though she's about to fall asleep on the table, she's perfectly fine."

"That's the thing," Llynya said glancing back to make sure that their unexpected guest was still safely sat in the tavern. "She doesn't have anywhere to stay, so Kyrie and I have arranged for her to sleep in Gawain's old room for the time being."

"I see." Lancelot raised an eyebrow. "And have you told Lynette that you've taken over her job?"

"The room still belongs to Gawain - he stays with me and he's hardly going to turn that poor girl out into the streets," Llynya replied. "I'm just making things quicker - Lynette won't mind once I explain. But I need your help with regard to Rowan."

"You want me to give her a bath? tell her a bedtime story? warm her bed?" Lancelot said with a smirk. "Whatever the lady desires then I am happy to oblige."

Llynya "harrumphed" and folded her arms crossly. "She's going to be staying in the room next to yours - I want you to keep an eye on her. That means an "eye" and no other bodily parts," she emphasised. "The poor thing has been through goodness knows what; she needs a friend not a quick tumble beneath the blankets."

"And you think that I am the best person for this job?" the knight laughed and shook his head in disbelief. "Your trust would seem to be rather ill-advised given my reputation."

"You helped me when I needed a friend," Llynya said quietly. "You stayed with me when the tiger was slain and I was afraid. You were a friend to Charlotte."

Lancelot met her eyes before swiftly looking away. Charlotte and her death wasn't something that he allowed himself to think of very often. Tucked away with his many regrets, the many faces of the people he had slain and the people that he had lost, she still flickered with the bright energy that she had displayed in life. Charlotte had not been his friend, nor his lover, but she had come very close to being both and perhaps something more. She had died on a muddy road with her throat torn out while he lay injured in a room not twenty paces away. She had fled to her death when he could have spoken out, tried to stop her somehow. Llynya watched the hurt flash through the knight's dark eyes and felt a pang of guilt. Charlotte had been her friend, and to use her memory in this way did not seem right, but she didn't see that she had much of a choice. She, Kyrie and Vanora had their hands full with work and children, and if any a girl needed a protector then it was the frightened woman who had been practically dumped on their doorstep. Reaching out, she touched Lancelot's arm.

"Charlotte died because her father made a mistake, not because of you. There was nothing that you could have done. I don't know where Rowan's family are, but for the moment she is alone and vulnerable. I'm not asking you to be her bodyguard - just to make sure that the soldiers don't bother her too much, you know what they can be like."

Lancelot did. He himself couldn't claim to be any better when it came to morality, but taking advantage of a woman was something that he frowned upon; sex should be a mutually enjoyable experience in his opinion, not a twisted version of hunter and prey. With a sigh, he glanced back at Rowan. She looked very tired and very thin, and he felt a little guilty that he had considered bedding her. She was no Charlotte, but he'd watch out for her - keep her safe for as long as she stayed at the wall.

"Her sister died in the attack that wounded Tom," he said to Llynya. "I think that was all the family that she had." The woman gave a small sigh of sorrow, and he patted her on the shoulder absently. "Don't worry about Rowan, I won't let anything happen to her." Llynya grabbed Lancelot's hand and looked at him steadily.

"You are a good man, Lancelot," she said quietly. "You might not believe it, but it's the truth."

He gave a twisted smile and released her hand, walking over to Rowan without looking back. She watched him approach warily, clumps of dark hair falling over her face and giving her an almost feral look. Inwardly, Lancelot sighed. The girl obviously didn't trust him, and this self imposed guardianship wasn't going to be made any easier if he was going to be walking on tenterhooks around her all the time.

"Llynya has arranged a room for you, you should get some sleep," he said quietly.

She got to her feet unsteadily, and blinked at Lancelot, trying to keep his face in focus. It was difficult to do so - there seemed to be more than one of him.

"Ga.. Sir Gawain said that Tom was awake, so I've.. I've.." She swayed dangerously, and shook her head. "Alyce is waiting, so I've…"

It was only Lancelot's fast reflexes that prevented her from smacking her head on the edge of the table when she passed out, and scooping her into his arms he gave Vanora a belligerent glare when he left the tavern and carried Rowan to her new quarters.

* * *

Tristan traced a strong, lean finger along his lover's lower lip and smiled. Lucy's eyes were closed, the skin across her brow and temples still moist and slightly flushed from her exertions; the wet clinging tendrils of hair gleaming in the flickering candlelight.

The clatter of noisy soldiers in the corridor outside caused a brief distraction, but the sound faded as they headed to their barracks, and his attention easily reverted to the woman in his arms. Leaning forward he kissed her softly, shifting his weight so as not to crush the small swelling of her belly. Lucy sighed and opened her eyes blearily, lazily tracing the line of his jaw with one finger.

"You need a shave," she murmured. "Shay might be happy to have a scruff-bag riding him, but I'm not."

"Lucy!" he said in shocked amusement. "You've been spending far too much time with Vanora."

"Van's my boss," she murmured, squirming as he nipped her collarbone and nuzzled the fuller than usual curve of her breast. "You're the once that corrupted me."

"Indeed." He smirked and rocked his hips slightly, delighting in the moan that escaped her when she realised that he was still warm and hard within her. "I dragged you into this kicking and screaming." Lucy whimpered as he started moving in a slow, languid rhythm, the fever rising once again in her oversensitive flesh, her fingers clawing down the scarred plane of his back. "Definitely screaming," he whispered. Moving together they came to completion swiftly, trembling and so tightly meshed together that neither knew where one ended and the other began. It took several long minutes before either of them spoke, but as usual Lucy was the first to do so.

"Do you think that the Saxons are really back?" she murmured. Her head was tucked into Tristan's shoulder, her body limp and sated, but her eyes were troubled as she traced a scar that tracked a silver path across his ribs. She remembered stitching the wound, remembered the blood and the horror that had been the price of victory against Cerdic and his men. "I had hoped we'd seen the last of them, I hoped that this was the end of the fighting."

Tristan was quiet for a moment, removing her hand from his battered flesh and bringing it to his lips instead.

"There will always be battles Lucy," he said quietly. "Even back in Samartia our tribes fought amongst themselves when the Romans were not there to be challenged. Tom believes that Saxons attacked his group and he is not one to make mistakes."

Lucy gave a heavy sigh and rolled over onto her back, absently placing a hand over her belly. "Men and their battles. Put women in charge and there'd be none of this nonsense."

"Women like Brigid?" Tristan's eyes strayed to the puckered scar on her shoulder that had been caused by one of the priestess' s followers. Lucy watched the darkness flicker in his eyes and caught his hand before he could touch the healed wound, bringing it to rest on her stomach.

"Brigid was crazy," she said with quiet disdain. "Why are we talking about the past anyway? We've got enough to worry about with regard to the future."

Tristan gave a half smile and looked down at the tangle of his calloused hand and Lucy's slightly chubby fingers. Beneath the skin that they rested on a new life was growing even now, and he wondered at such a blessing when less than a year ago he had wished for death.

Lucy watched his expression soften and kissed his shoulder, a little spring of happiness bubbling within her and causing her to nuzzle her head against the scout in an effort not to grin.

"It will be alright, Lucy." Tristan said quietly. "We've fought before, we'll fight again, whatever the foe. I'll always come back to you."

"You'd better." Lifting her head, she met his eyes solemnly. "'cause if you die I'll kill you."

"As you wish my lady." Kissing her forehead, he tucked her against his side and watched her fall asleep, uneasily wondering if he had just made a promise that he would not be able to keep.

**A/N Tris/Lucy fluff - what can I say, I wanted to show them together after "Faithless'" trials and tribulations. Thanks very much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter - all the comments were very much appreciated (thanks Kim for pointing out my mistake). Sorry, I'm a bit behind on review replies, but I figured you'd probably prefer a new chapter instead.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Lancelot nudged open the door to Gawain's quarters with his shoulder and kicked it shut behind him. Although Rowan was slender, carrying her up several flights of stairs had left his arms aching, and it was with a grunt of relief that he placed her carefully on the bed. She didn't move, and it was only after placing a light finger upon her neck that he was certain that she had passed out from exhaustion rather than dropping dead of shock.

With a sigh, he rubbed a hand through his dark curls and glanced around the room. Lynette seemed to have roused herself from her usual languid pace: there were worn but clean blankets on the bed and a fire was starting to take in the fireplace, a pile of logs nearby waiting to feed it. He tossed a couple of pieces of kindling onto the blaze, more out of something to do rather than necessity, before turning back to the girl on the bed. _So this was his charge. _He mentally kicked himself. He was very fond of Llynya, but she knew far more of his weaknesses than he was willing to admit. Using Charlotte's memory like that hadn't been playing fair, _but then he hadn't had to agree to look after Rowan, had he? _Moving closer to the bed, he studied the girl who slept upon it. She was older than he had first assumed - perhaps in her early twenties, her hair was dark and snarled around her face and shoulders, her cheeks smudged with dirt, her dress torn and stained with blood, mud and the Gods knew what else. _Not exactly a prize, _he thought ruefully, but there was a vulnerability about her that touched something within him. He already looked out for Vanora's half dozen daughters, what was one more chit to keep an eye on? She'd stay here for a few days and then find somewhere more permanent; no doubt marry one of the soldiers or farm hands eventually. Walking quietly to the door, he snagged one of the young servants hurrying past by the arm. The girl gave a yelp before blushing furiously, almost dropping her pile of laundry. Lancelot gave her a smile and slipped her a coin.

"I am in need of a bowl of warm water, some soap and a couple of towels," he said to her. "There's another couple of coins in it for you if you can find someone to lend me a dress."

The girl blinked at him in surprise, and Lancelot hastily amended his request. "For the girl in there. The girl who needs a dress."

"Oh." The young maid looked at him nonplussed for a moment, before obviously discarding whatever strange mental pictures she had conjured up. "I beg your pardon Sir, but what size is the lady? Is she a , er.. Woman or a girl?"

"She's…" Lancelot thought for a moment. Women's clothing was usually a hindrance than a matter of interest, and he was fairly sure that any descriptions he might give of Rowan's body would merely embarrass the poor servant girl further. "She's about the same size as Kyrie," he said eventually. "Do you know who Kyrie is?"

"The cook at the tavern?" At his nod, she smiled. "I can probably help then. I won't be long." Hurrying down the corridor, she belatedly remembered her manners, turned and gave a curtsey, before scampering down the stairs.

Lancelot shook his head and debated whether to go back into Rowan's room. He wanted to go and find Arthur; discuss what was to be done about the Saxons that seemed to have appeared out of nowhere, but he had made a promise to Llynya, and if there were any urgent news then someone would have come to find him. With a weary sigh he rested his head against the cold stone wall and waited for the servant girl to return.

* * *

Arthur Castus made his way to the healing rooms, a sick feeling of dread churning in his stomach. He had been informed briefly of what had happened to Tom and the people he had been travelling with, but until he heard the words from the hunter's own lips, he did not want to believe it. One look at Tom's face, eyes fever bright, but still lucid, put paid to any hopes of a misunderstanding.

"Tom." Arthur walked towards his friend's bed and reached for his hand in a faint substitute for the embrace that they usually shared when re-united. "How are you faring, old friend?"

The older man gave a half smile. "Better than the rest of my group." He regarded Arthur wearily, but something akin to pride flickered over his face. "I apologise for not bowing, my king."

Arthur gave a genuine laugh. "Protocol was never your strong point Tom. I don't think I or anyone else will forget you tipping a tankard of wine over Bishop Valerious' head."

Tom smiled in remembrance. "Irritating little shit of man. Lucky I was too drunk to draw my sword."

"Lucky you weren't sentenced to death," Arthur replied more soberly. "Patronage barely saved you then, what happened to you this time?"

"Saxons." Tom watched his friend nod regretfully, as though it had been the answer he had been expecting. " Not much more than a scouting party, but they were swift and methodical. They killed, they took what they wanted and they were gone. No hanging around."

"Not an isolated group, then?" Arthur asked, although in his heart he already knew the answer.

"I can't be sure." Tom rested his head back on the pillows wearily. "It was a fast, well organised raid, but the way in which they left so quickly… There was no reason for them to do so, it was as though they were hurrying back somewhere or to someone. None of them seemed like a true leader, not given the discipline they showed. I'm sorry Arthur, there's more to this than just a few opportunistic Saxons left stranded on our lands."

The king nodded, his green eyes dark. "These past couple of months we've had peace, no reports of attacks. Why now?"

"Are you sure?" Tom asked quietly. "You can't have had much time to visit the villages in the north. How long is it since you've had word from them?"

The words stuck a nerve, and Arthur looked up guiltily. "I'm waiting for a scouting party to return. We haven't heard any ill news, but I sent them to make sure that all is well."

"And when are they due to return?"

"Tomorrow," Arthur said quietly. "They are good men, well trained. If there are Saxons out there then they will prove more than a match for them."

A soft rap on the door prevented either man from saying anything further.

"Enter," Arthur called out, expecting either the healer Brennus or his young apprentice Tibor. Instead, a young woman with dark hair slid through the door, her hands trying to keep hold of the baby that was secured in a sling across her chest and the dog who yipped and pirouetted with glee when it caught its master's scent. Giving up the battle, Llynya let go of Lark's lead and winced when the lurcher bounded across the room, leaping across the king's lap and licking her master's face gleefully.

"Gerroff, girl." Tom's voice was stern but there was no disguising the grin upon his face. "All skin and bone you are missy - that's the last time I let you have pups.

"She had puppies?" Llynya asked curiously. Suddenly remembering that her king was in the room and that she hadn't actually greeted Tom properly, she gave Arthur as best a curtsey as she could with a wriggling infant attached to her chest and smiled at the old hunter.

"It's good to see you Tom," she said, walking over to the bed and kissing him on the cheek. "It's nice to see that you haven't changed - still rescuing grubby maidens from the Saxons."

Tom gave a huff of amusement and regarded his former charge thoughtfully.

"I'm not sure that "maiden" is an appropriate term for you, Llynya, not unless that's someone else's baby."

Llynya wrinkled her nose at him and lifted her child free of the sling. "This is Taran. And before you ask, Gawain has made an honest woman of me, so no lectures please."

Tom eyed the babe appraisingly. "Takes after it's mother luckily, let's hope it has better taste in partners."

Llynya stifled a smile. That was as fair as praise went when it came to the taciturn man, but she noticed the way his face softened when he looked at the child, and the way that his hand had automatically rested on Lark's head when she had settled down beside him. Tom was not nearly as emotionless as he tried to make himself seem. He did look tired however, and when he fell asleep half way through asking her what she had been doing, she tugged his blankets up and left quietly with Arthur, leaving Lark asleep by his side.

* * *

Rowan woke up slowly, nuzzling into the soft pillows that cushioned her head, so comfortable that it took several moments to realise that she wasn't at home, this wasn't her bed, and she had absolutely no idea where she was. The memories of the past couple of days flooded through the dam of her memories and slid icy cold through her body, but she took a deep breath and forced herself to look around.

The room was smallish but clean, a fire burnt in the grate and some unknown person had obviously placed her on the simple bed and covered her with a blanket. The door to the room was shut, but from the thin seam of light that slipped uninterrupted along the edge of the doorway, it was clear that no bolt had locked it shut. Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she sat for a moment. She remembered eating; the comforting full feeling of her belly reassured her of that much. There were other things, other memories that came before, but she pushed them back and concentrated on the present. A girl had helped her - Lyra? Lily? She had given her food, had made her eat. The sudden remembrance of the man who had sat with her while she had eaten made her blush, and she almost gave a nervous giggle. Two knights - King Arthur's knights had spoken to her - one golden, one dark, just like characters from one of Alyce's more fanciful daydreams - Gawain and Lancelot, those had been their names. The thought of her sister gave her courage, and getting to her feet, Rowan did her best to tuck her unruly hair into something like a plait and tried to rub the worst of the mud off her arms and chest with spit and a corner of the blanket. She knew that her face was probably grubby as well, but without a mirror she dare not risk just smearing the grime further. Taking a deep breath, she squared her shoulders and walked over to the door.

She had barely touched the catch before the door suddenly swung inwards. Stumbling backwards., she fell heavily onto her rump, looking up nonplussed at the tall figure who strode into the room and placed the tray that he had been carrying on the small table in the corner. The man, for it was, unmistakably and irrefutably a man, she realised, turned and looked at her with a cross between amusement and sympathy.

"I see you've woken up," he said dryly.

Rowan nodded and scrambled to her feet, giving her skirts an entirely ineffectual brush as she did so. She knew this man; this was the dark knight from the tavern. Warily, she took a step backwards. He had been kind enough before, but where was she? Was this his room? Did he expect…"

He seemed to read her thoughts and gave a rueful laugh.

"It's alright girl," he said with amusement. "I've brought you some water and a change of clothing, that is all. Wash, get dressed, I'll be outside when you are done. Arthur would like to speak to you."

"_King_ Arthur?" Rowan looked at Lancelot incredulously. "But I'm not…" her voice trailed off. Lancelot watched her with hooded black eyes and she averted her eyes, the flush that suffused her cheeks suddenly having nothing to do with the heat of the fire.

"You're certainly not presentable, if that's what you meant to say. Come on." He handed her a worn but soft petticoat and placed the matching dress on the end of the bed. "Clean yourself as best you can, I'll be waiting for you outside."

Rowan took the undergarment automatically when it was thrust before her. She was more than a little overawed by the handsome man who had walked into the room and taken charge, and a little annoyed as well, truth be told, but the prospect of meeting the king was far more intimidating. Watching as Lancelot opened the door, she finally found her voice.

"Will he, the king I mean, will he let me go and bury my sister?"

Lancelot looked at her for a long moment, but she did not look away. Something that might have been pity or compassion flickered in his eyes before he snuffed it out.

"Several guards have gone to the forest, they will bury the dead. I'm sorry for your loss." His words were almost emotionless, and before she had time to reply, the door was shut and Rowan was left alone with the firelight.

**A/N: For those who haven't read the prequels to this, Tom and Arthur go back a long way, in fact Tom taught Arthur to ride and was something of a mentor to him, so that is why he doesn't defer to the king as most people of his rank would.** **Thanks very much to everyone who read/reviewed the last chapter - it was very much appreciated, and I hope that it's not too confusing bringing characters from other stories into this. If you get lost then please let me know and I'll do my best to make things more understandable.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Kyrie put down the tankard she had been polishing, and smiled as Lucy entered the tavern kitchen. The blonde girl returned the smile and yawned expansively, leaning against the counter top and surveying the pile of bowls and jugs that were waiting to be cleaned. Although it looked like a lot, it was obvious that business had been slow, and Lucy gave a thoughtful huff.

"Been a quiet night?"

"Quieter than your night must have been," Kyrie said wickedly, grinning when her friend's cheeks flushed. "Arthur's got half the garrison readying for battle, and the other half are too busy talking to eat much. "

"And a good thing too," Vanora remarked as she bustled into the kitchen , flicking the cleaning cloth she was carrying onto the work top. "With both you and Llynya disappearing like that, I had to use Three and Four to serve."

"Three and Four are very…" Lucy suddenly noticed the small pile of broken crockery in the corner. "Enthusiastic," she finished lamely. "Anyway I had to speak with Tristan. We had… wedding things to talk about."

Vanora snorted. "Practicing for the wedding night more like - not that you need to." Blithely ignoring Lucy's squeak of embarrassment, she tossed her a clean rag. "Now that you are here then you might as well make yourself useful . Kyrie can wash, you can dry and I'll take care of things out there."

Catching the cloth, Lucy shook her head with a cross between admiration and exasperation and watched the red-head sashay back into the tavern. "D'you think Van can read minds?" she asked Kyrie, who was already elbow deep in soapy water. "I don't think anything gets past her."

Kyrie glanced around, taking in Lucy's dishevelled hair and dress that had at least two buttons done up wrong, and privately thought that even Caradoc, the half blind weaver would have guessed what the girl had been doing, but held her tongue. Instead, she changed the subject.

"The scouting party are due back tomorrow - do you think we've got enough meat?"

"Llynya sorted out extra yesterday," Lucy replied, wiping a tankard dry. "Dickon put it in the cellar - it's cut up ready; I think he fancies Llynya, he never cuts up the meat for me."

Kyrie raised her eyebrows. "Better not tell Gawain that; we've only got one butcher, we don't want him…butchered himself."

Lucy laughed and flicked Kyrie with her cloth. "Stick to cooking , Kyrie, you're much better at that than telling jokes."

"Unlike you," Kyrie retorted with a grin.

"True enough," her friend agreed. "The scouts were supposed to visit Shaymouth - I'm hoping for a letter from my brother. So much has happened since I last wrote to him, my next letter will be as long as Arthur's books!"

Kyrie smiled, and handed Lucy a dripping plate. She herself had never learnt to read, however Lucy had been teaching her the basics when she found the time. "You must miss him," she remarked.

"I do." Lucy carefully dried the plate and put it away. "Him _and_ Anni. My niece will be five years old in the autumn - I wish that they'd come back to live here, but they are happy where they are, and I can't move away. Still, " she said with a sigh. "They're happy, I'm happy. A year ago it looked like we were all going to be slaughtered by Saxons, so I can't really complain."

"I suppose not." Kyrie handed her friend another plate, but her eyes were drawn to the half-empty tavern beyond the kitchen. They had assumed that the Saxons no longer posed a threat, but uneasily she wondered if that assumption had been a little premature.

* * *

Rowan tugged the borrowed dress over her head and smoothed it down as best she could. It was a little tight at the bust, but there wasn't anything she could do about that. At least the neckline wasn't particularly low, and it was nice to have something clean against her skin, even if it was a badly fitting, borrowed dress. She didn't have enough water to wash her hair, so she had plaited it so that it was kept out of the way, but the rest of her felt clean and refreshed, her cheeks pink from being scrubbed with the cold water. 

Giving a deep breath that had several buttons straining alarmingly, she squared her shoulders and walked to the doorway. Meeting the king was an alarming prospect, but she had gone through worse these past couple of days. _All she had to do was keep her wits and tell the truth_, she told herself.

Lancelot was waiting for her outside. Leaning against the wall, obviously lost in thought, he ran a lazy eye over her when she opened the door and gave a faint smile.

"Much better," he said approvingly. "You actually look like a girl rather than something the cat, or in this case the hawk dragged in."

Rowan looked at him, a little nonplussed, unsure as to whether he was complimenting her or merely teasing. "Shall we go, sir?" she asked politely. "I do not want to keep the king waiting."

"Ah, Arthur's always waiting or worrying about something. He'd be disappointed if we were on time," Lancelot replied, pushing himself away from the wall and gently taking Rowan's arm. At her slightly worried expression, he laughed. "Don't worry, you have nothing to fear from the king. From what Galahad told me, he's already talked to Tom. He just wants to hear your account - you aren't in any trouble."

"He talked to Tom?" Rowan forgot to be nervous and looked up at the tall knight with wide eyes. "He woke up? Is he alright?"

"Well he's not well, but he's got Brennus looking after him, and he's the best healer in the country, if not the gentlest," Lancelot replied. "I'll take you to see him afterwards if you like."

"Please, I mean yes." Rowan's words tripped clumsily of her tongue, and she laughed, half in embarrassment, half in relief. "That would be very kind. Thank you."

Lancelot smiled and rapped sharply on the door to one of Arthur's meeting rooms. _Funny little chit, _he mused as he opened the door and ushered her inside. _It would be interesting to see what she was like when she was settled and not so overwhelmed by things._

Arthur got up from the chair he had been sat in when the door opened, passing a pile of documents to Guinevere, who placed them on a table and joined her husband in greeting their visitors. Rowan blushed and fixed her gaze firmly on the ground before giving a curtsey when the handsome king greeted her. She glanced at Lancelot, obviously unsure of what she should do and he took pity on her, steering her gently towards a bench and sitting down next to her. Guinevere raised an eyebrow at him, but the knight merely shrugged and turned his attention to her husband.

"Lady, I am sorry for your loss," Arthur said gently. "You showed great courage and saved the life of one of my oldest friends, for that I am indebted to you."

Rowan looked up in surprise. The only person that she had helped was Tom, and he certainly didn't look as though he associated with royalty. "I beg your pardon sir, but are you speaking of Tom?" She asked hesitantly. At Arthur's nod, she shifted uncomfortably. "It was Sir Tristan who really saved Tom - you should save your thanks for him. If he hadn't found me then I don't know what would have happened."

"You survived a Saxon attack, you found help, " Guinevere said simply. "Tom owes his life to both of you."

Rowan gave a weak smile. She really didn't think the beautiful Woad woman would appreciate being told that her survival skills had so far consisted of having the good fortune to be weeing in the bushes when the Saxons attacked, and falling flat on her face in front of Arthur's scout. "I was merely lucky," she said eventually. "Sir Lancelot said that Tom was alright, well not alright, but better? " she asked hopefully.

Arthur smiled and leant forward, taking one of her hands in his. "Tom will be fine," he said reassuringly. "Brennus expects him to make a full recovery."

Rowan smiled shyly, settling her hand in her lap when he let go of it. "You wanted to hear about the Saxons, Sir?" Feeling oddly calm, she met Arthur's eyes and at his nod, told him what she had seen.

* * *

"You did well." Lancelot walked Rowan back to her room, adjusting his stride to her smaller steps as she negotiated the unfamiliar steps that led to the knights' quarters. "You didn't even pass out - which I for one was grateful for." 

Rowan laughed, and for a moment was almost tempted to slap him playfully on the arm as though he were one of the farmhands she used to joke with back in her village. She swiftly caught herself and instinctively dropped behind him a little. Sir Lancelot was not a boy that she had grown up with, he was an experienced soldier - one of Arthur's legendary knights. She was… Well what was she? At the moment she wasn't at all sure. Nonetheless she smiled in thanks when he nudged her out of the way of two soldiers too drunk and involved in an argument to notice the two people that they almost walked into. They had visited Tom briefly, and while the old tracker was fast asleep, the lurcher curled by his side had wagged her tail in recognition and licked her hand. A comforting gesture that was both reassuring and almost bittersweet given the events that they had both been through since they had last met.

A young man was waiting for them when she and Lancelot finally turned the corner to the knights' rooms, and Rowan's stomach clenched when he gave her a nervous glance. Lancelot obviously recognised the youth however.

"Hasel, what brings you here?"

Hasel gave him an apologetic look. "It's not you that I was looking for, sir," he replied. "It's the lady. Eadgyth's men are back, they've brought the … people who were killed in the forest back. Sir Gawain said to let her know incase she wanted to say goodbye." He looked worried when Rowan's face paled. "We cleaned them up nice and all," he said hastily. "You'd never know that…"

"Enough." Lancelot said sharply. "Where is she?"

"Room next to the stables," the young man replied. "I'm sorry miss, I didn't mean to offend."

"It's alright." Rowan gave an attempt at a smile. "Thank-you for letting me know; I would very much like to see my sister."

"Of course." Hasel gave a slightly panicked look at Lancelot, who sighed and flipped him a coin.

"I'll take her, " the knight said. "Off you go boy." The young man caught the coin deftly, and with a quick bow, fled, obviously thankful for extracting himself from an extremely uncomfortable situation.

"Come on," Lancelot said quietly, nudging Rowan down the corridor, down the stairs and into the courtyard. Neither of them spoke, but this time she walked beside him as though seeking comfort, and when they came to the stables, Lancelot spoke to her gently. "Do you want me to go in with you?"

Rowan shook her head. "No, no thank you." Walking over to the door, she looked back and gave a twisted smile. "Alyce always wanted to meet a knight, but I don't think… It wouldn't be right, not like this." She turned the handle, blinking as the torchlight from within spilled across the cobblestones. "Will you…" Her voice died off, but her eyes were frightened as she tried to form the question.

"I'll stay here," Lancelot said quietly, saving her the trouble. "I won't go anywhere."

She gave a brief, uncertain smile before disappearing inside the room, and with a sigh, Lancelot slid down and sat with his back against the wall. He was tired, he wasn't sure what comfort he could offer to Rowan, but he did not think of leaving, and resting his head against the cold stone, he watched the braziers flicker and the bats flit through the eaves of the buildings , and waited for her to return.

**A/N: Happy fourth of July to ****readers across the pond - I don't know, you say you want your independence and then you never write, you never phone… (only joking - have a fireworks-tastic happy day) . Oh and to my fellow Brits - fingers crossed that you haven't got washed away in all the rain. Stupid weather - grrr. Thanks to everyone who read and reviewed the last chapter. I am shamelessly shallow and insecure, so your comments really help me keep writing : )**


	8. Chapter 8

**Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Rowan stood for a long time next to her sister's body. The small room was dimly lit - the flickering brazier's light kind upon Alyce's waxy skin and giving it a fake illusion of life. The messenger boy had spoken the truth; the body was clean, Alyce's hair that had been the envy of many a girl, her sister included, shining softly against the white cloth in which she was wrapped. _But it was just that, _Rowan thought with a strange, sorrowful clarity. _A body. _Whatever had lit this shell of flesh and bone from within was gone, and for a moment she envied her sister such peace, even as she bit back tears. "Sleep well dear sister," she whispered softly. "May the next life treat you with he kindness you did not find here." Kissing Alyce on the forehead, she covered her face with the blanket and sighed, taking in a deep breath and concentrating on regaining her equilibrium. There was a knight outside who had already been more than kind to her, and she would not embarrass either him or herself by turning into a snivelling wreck. In an attempt to concentrate on something other than her sister's body, she turned her attention to the room.

It was too big to have once been used as a stable, but not big enough to have been a grain store room. Noticing a couple of rusty bolts wedged in the stonework and the dumped remains of what looked like a saddle tree in the corner, Rowan concluded that this might have once been a saddlers workshop. A sudden snort echoed loudly, making her jump, and she turned swiftly, giving a half laugh when she realised that it was only one of the horses next door. While the outside walls were made of stone, the partition between the room and the stables was made of slatted wood, low enough to lean over and view the animals next door. Wandering over, Rowan slid down against the wall, watching the large grey horse in the nearest stall munch contentedly on its hay. The noise was soothing, and were it not for a sudden, strange sound, Rowan would have got to her feet and rejoined Lancelot. Instead, she froze. It hadn't been much - just a scrape of something soft against stone - _but surely all the horses here were shod? _she realised. Not a hoof then… Holding her breath, she listened intently, but heard nothing. _You're jumping at shadows, _she told herself firmly. _Stop acting like a little girl. It was probably a rat or…_ She no longer had to concentrate on keeping quiet when a shadow slipped down the passage in front of the stalls and paused at the doorway. There was little enough light in the room in which she sat, but the man, and it must be a man by his height and broadness of shoulders, Rowan realised, was clear enough to see when it illuminated his pale hair. _Not Sir Gawain, _she thought, her heart pounding. _Too tall, his hair too short. _Gawain was the only blond man she had seen so far, and while there were probably others at the wall, why was this man skulking around in the darkness? _A Saxon? A Saxon in the heart of Arthur's kingdom? _Breathing as shallowly as she could, she edged forward and peered through a gap in the wooden slats. The man seemed to be watching the courtyard. He turned slightly and she froze, but he had not noticed her; instead was reaching for something attached to his belt. A gleam of silver flashed briefly and Rowan's unease bloomed into full out panic. She had seen that face before - he was one of the men in the forest: the Saxons that had slaughtered Alyce and their companions.

_He couldn't have seen her_, she thought frantically - surely he wouldn't turn her back on her if he had, but Lancelot was outside, and the knight had no knowledge of the danger that stalked him.

Sliding back on her hands and knees, Rowan looked around desperately for some sort of weapon. She could shout or run to the door, but that would focus the knight's attention upon her, leaving him vulnerable to the man who crouched only feet away. _Nothing, there was nothing… _The only thing the room held apart from the table that held her sister's body was the tangle of metal in the corner, long since rusted and fused together. It would take too long to untangle and frankly she wasn't sure if she could get it through the door way. The brazier above flickered, and Rowan looked up. The plan that came to her was foolhardy at best, but it was the only one she had. Getting to her feet and keeping herself close to the wall, she tugged her sleeve down over her hand and swiftly yanked the metal bowl from the strut that held it to the wall. The fire flickered dangerously close to her face as she ran towards the partition, but she turned her head and threw the flaming missile as hard as she could towards the Saxon, feeling a brief surge of triumph when she heard him scream. Not daring to look at what she had done, Rowan fled towards the door, scrabbling at the lock and shoving it open. Something very heavy slammed into it from the other side, knocking her down, and she yelped, first in pain as the door crashed into her side, and then in fear as realised that the door was on fire; the flames leaping towards her, a horrifying screaming noise echoing around her.

A hand grabbed the back of her dress suddenly pulling her free and placing her carefully on the blessedly cool cobblestones outside. The screaming had stopped, and pushing herself to her knees, Rowan found her herself looking up at Lancelot.

"Are you alright?" he demanded. His eyes glittered, his jaw was set, and Rowan looked away hastily. By the stables the burning figure of what might have once been a man lay slumped by the outside the room that held Alyce's body. It twitched , one hand reaching out as though to pull itself forward, before collapsing. Dazedly she watched it burn.

"Rowan?" Lancelot put a hand under her chin and pulled her head around to face him. "Are you hurt?" he repeated in exasperation.

"I made him on fire and hit him with a door," she said carefully. Biting her lip, she stifled an hysterical giggle. "He was going to…" She shook her head. "Better put it out."

The knight muttered something in a language that she didn't understand and hurried over to the stables. Dragging out a water bucket from the nearest horse's stall, he doused the side of the stables and the door, extinguishing the flames, before refilling it from the trough and tipping it over the dead man who lay in the courtyard. The commotion had brought at least a dozen people running; stable boys who hung back wide-eyed, guards who had been patrolling nearby, and several villagers who had obviously left the tavern and didn't look particularly sober. Rowan watched them pass, but did not look at them. _I did that, _she thought as she looked at the charred body a few feet away. _I killed him. _

"Rowan." Lancelot was beside her once again. "Come on." He looped an arm around her waist and pulled her to her feet. She did her best to obey, but staggering slightly, she put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself and cried out in pain.

"Let me look." He caught the injured limb when she tried to pull it back against her chest, and grimaced at the blisters that were forming upon her palm. "Let's find Brennus, he'll take care of this."

Rowan nodded and let him lead her towards the healing rooms. Adrenaline had subsided to shaky emptiness, and she followed meekly, the smell of burning flesh still bitter and sickening, clinging to her hair and clothing.

* * *

"Do you know how this sounds?" Galahad shook his head and glanced at Gawain. "What sort of Saxon would try and breech the fort? Why would they try? Gods, Gawain, I like the girl enough, but she's been through a lot - it doesn't take much … You saw what happened to Tom's sister." 

Gawain shrugged. "If you'd have asked me a year ago then I'd have agreed with you, but we've seen stranger things than Saxons. Maybe Rowan is telling the truth, maybe she's mistaken, but I can't see that there's much arguing with that bloody great sword, can you?"

Galahad shook his head. Slouched on the benches outside the room in which Arthur, Lancelot and Rowan were ensconced, there was little enough to do except wait, exchange theories and wonder at the weapon that had been prised from the flesh of the man Rowan had killed. He sword was well made - the blade sharp enough were it not for the pieces of burnt flesh that still adhered to it, but it was the symbols that were inscribed along its length that were fascinating. Both knights were familiar with Saxon weapons, but unlike the Woads, the pale haired men of the north did not usually sign either their weapons or their kills. The sword was an anomaly, as was the attack, and had so far brought about a lot of speculation, none of which had proved of any use.

"It could be one of the Woads', " Galahad sighed. "I mean not one of _our _Woads, but.."

"It hasn't anything to do with us." Guinevere slipped up the stairs like a shadow and gave a brief but eloquent glare at the young knight. "This isn't something of ours, be they _yours _or not."

"Lady, I'm sorry, I didn't" Galahad fumbled for an apology, but the queen merely shook her head and gave him a brief smile before turning back to the weapon in the corner.

"Peace, Galahad," she said quietly. "I know that you meant no offence." Picking up the sword, she bit her lip thoughtfully as she studied the engravings upon it. "The man who owned this was killed?" she asked the two knights.

Gawain nodded. "Yes, and too badly burned to identify. Rowan, the girl brought in yesterday thinks that he was a Saxon."

Guinevere gave a heavy sigh and gave both men a bitter smile. "It seems that peace has brought more trouble upon this country than the Romans ever did." Gawain raised an eyebrow, Galahad snorted, and she huffed in acknowledgement. "Alright, perhaps not. But being dragged to my country has had its benefits has it not? Two of which are no doubt warming your beds as we speak." With a smile, she slid into the healing room, taking the sword with her.

"Can't really argue with that," Galahad said wryly. "Bloody country might be filled with Romans, Saxons, insane priestesses and the like, but you can't fault the women."

"No." Gawain leant forward and reached for his sword as heavy footsteps echoed up the stairwell, but relaxed when Bors's familiar shape emerged from the darkness. "Although the Gods know what they think of us…"

**A/N: In reference to Galahad's comment about what happened to Tom's sister - she went a bit mad when her son and surrogate daughter were killed (Llynya's Song reference). Thanks very much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter - I hope that I replied to you all. Hello PFC and Twisted Ivy, kind anonymous reviewers - thanks very much : ) Summary to the story is changed because it was frankly rubbish and I had a couple of PM's telling me (quite rightly) so.**


	9. Chapter 9

**Disclaimer: nothing that you recognise belongs to me.**

Guinevere slipped into the healing rooms and closed the door behind her. The tang of herbs made her nose twitch, and although she masked her unease, she did not look at Brennus, the healer who watched her from beside the fire. The old man was suspicious of her, and rightly so, Guinevere thought ruefully, for she had recovered from a mortal wound with the help of magic that had no place amongst his jars of herbs and potions. Nonetheless she gave him a brief smile and turned her attention to the other people in the room.

Rowan sat on one of the beds, her legs tucked under her, her dark eyes wary as a vixen's. Beside her Lancelot lounged with deceptive languor, his back resting against the wall, his hand resting against the pommel of his sword. Both of them acknowledged her presence - Lancelot with a polite nod, Rowan with a blush and a nervous half smile. Guinevere nodded briefly to the pair before turning to the man slumped on the bench beside the window.

"Arthur?" She said his name quietly, although there was no real need to do so. He raised his dark head and gave her a weary smile.

"My lady." Guinevere gave a smile in return and sat down next to him. Reaching over, she took one of his hands and placed it in her lap, covering his big calloused hand with her smaller ones. He turned to her, familiar green eyes turned dark in the shadows, and she swallowed hard. She would kill for him, she would die for him, but she herself had no clue as to the sword's provenance, and to tell him of the only person that might, meant betraying a promise to her oldest friend. There was no contest really, although she wished with all her heart that she did not have to make the choice.

"One of the guards told me what had happened." She looked over at Rowan. "Were you hurt? Apparently you saved Lancelot's life."

The dark -haired knight squirmed a little, obviously irritated by the assumption, and both Arthur and his wife had to bite back a grin. Rowan merely looked embarrassed.

"I am fine, my lady, " she said shyly. "I was lucky that's all."

"She threw a lamp at him and whacked him with a door," Brennus commented helpfully. "Wouldn't think it to look at her - seems such a nice little thing."

"So does Lucy," Lancelot muttered. "It's always the quiet ones you have to watch out for."

Rowan wrinkled her nose and took another swallow of the wine that she had been given. What with that and the disgusting brew that the old healer had given her, she was feeling a little light-headed. The pain in her hand had receded to a dull throb, and although she knew that she should be paying attention - this was the king and queen sat before her after all, her attention kept straying to the fire, her eyes suddenly heavy.

"Best catch her Lancelot," Guinevere said mildly, nodding at the girl beside him. The young knight frowned in confusion before grabbing Rowan as she slid bonelessly forward.

"Gods Brennus, what did you give her?" Lancelot grumbled, placing the unconscious girl back onto the bed. "You might have told me you were trying to knock the girl out before she did the job for you herself."

"She's fine." The elderly healer looked a little affronted at the question regarding his methods. "She needs rest and she wasn't going to get it wound up as she was. I helped things along a little that's all, she'll be fine in the morning."

"She'd better be." Getting to his feet, he drew up the blanket he had been sitting on and covered Rowan. Brennus raised an eyebrow at him, and Lancelot fairly shoved the covers over Rowan's shoulders before stalking over to the other side of the room and crossing his arms defensively, his dark eyes daring anyone to comment.

Used to his second in command's quick temper, Arthur turned his thoughts to more pressing matters. Giving a nod to the healer, he signalled for the man to leave. Brennus did so without a murmur. He had no interest in the politics of his country, nor anything of use to suggest. Gratefully he left the room and headed towards his quarters, taking with him the jug of ale that Lucy had brought up for him.

Arthur waited for the door to close before speaking. He had had time to consider both Rowan and Lancelot's stories, but was stymied as to what his next action to be. At the moment they only had a body charred beyond recognition and a sword bearing words in a dialect neither Woads nor Romans were familiar with.

"You are certain that you have told us everything," the king asked Lancelot. "There is nothing else that you remember?"

Lancelot shot his commander and friend an irritated look. "I've told you all I know. Five times. Believe me Arthur, I wish I could tell you more - it happened too fast. I suppose I could have put the fire out on the man before dousing the stables, but if I had you would have been interrogating him in a pile of cinders."

"Peace Lancelot." Arthur held up a hand to appease his friend. "You are in no way to blame for this, and I thank you for what you did. If the man had made his way into the fort… " he let the ramifications remain unsaid. "I doubt that the man was working alone - not with the recent attacks, but until we know more we are at a disadvantage. If we knew the origins of the sword, if we knew what the markings upon it meant then we might have some sort of idea, but we don't and I can't see that anyone else at Hadrians wall would either."

Lancelot sighed and rubbed his forehead absently. "Can't say that I've met many tame Saxons around these parts. Can't say that I want to either. Deader they are the better by my way of thinking."

"You would have said the same about Woads once," Guinevere said quietly.

The knight looked at her a little abashed but did not apologise. "And doubtless you expressed the same sentiments regarding Romans and their Samartian knights."

"True," Guinevere acknowledged. "I have hated as fiercely as I have loved and I make no apology for that. There has been blood spilt by both our people, but such days are in the past. Reconciliation is a far more preferable path than warfare is it not?"

"You think we should attempt reconciliation with the Saxons?" Lancelot snorted in disbelief. "Should you approach them or shall I? Nothing like an evisceration to wake you up in the morning - perhaps you should talk to Rowan about how willing the bastards are to listen to reason." He nodded towards the shape huddled under the blankets. "They aren't even human."

"Lancelot," Arthur said warningly, "we will resolve nothing by arguing." Despite his words he looked at his wife with troubled eyes. "There is no hope of reasoning with the savages," he said quietly. "Surely you see that?"

"With the men who killed Rowan's companions, no," Guinevere acknowledged. "But I know of someone who may be able to help us." She dropped her eyes to the floor. "A man of Saxon blood."

Lancelot laughed incredulously , but Arthur put a hand beneath his wife's chin and turned her head so that her gaze met his.

"Tell me of him," he said quietly.

"It was two winters ago," she started. "My friend Isola and I were out hunting; we had been friends since we were children - she was like a sister to me, although she never had the taste for battle that I did. We wandered too far, we did not pay enough attention and she paid for it. A group of Saxons attacked us. We fought, but we were no match for them - we both fled in different directions, and it was only when I returned home that I realised Isola had been captured." Arthur squeezed her hand in sympathy, but Guinevere shook her head. "No, you don't understand, Isola isn't dead. I led a group of our best archers back to where we had been attacked, but there was nothing but the bodies of three Saxons. One I had killed, but the other two died from wounds made by a sword - a weapon that neither Isola or I carried. Of Isola herself there was no sign, and it was several months before I saw her again." Guinevere bit her lip and looked warily at first Arthur and Lancelot. "What I tell you now must never go beyond these walls. I gave Isola my word to keep her secret and were lives not at risk I would not have spoken of it. You must promise not to speak of this to anyone else."

Both Arthur and Lancelot nodded, their expressions suddenly wary. Guinevere swallowed hard and concentrated on the fire.

"Isola found me when I was washing in the river. It was a spot we both frequented but few others knew of. I nearly shot her, she startled me so much," Guinevere said wryly. "She was whole, she was…blooming. It took me a while to notice that much."

"The Saxons didn't kill her," Lancelot murmured. "Why not?"

"It was not your choice to become a weapon of Rome, was it?" Guinevere asked him. She inwardly winced when Arthur's fingers tightened around hers, but continued. "Have you never thought that not all Saxons travelled here willingly? Isola was saved by one of the men who tried to kill us. His name is Osric. She was wounded when she tried to flee. He stopped the other men from killing her and looked after her. They fell in love and now have a child."

"A Woad married a Saxon?" Lancelot asked in disbelief.

"No, of course not," Guinevere retorted. "Who in this land would marry them? Osric killed several of his own people to save her - he loves her and she loves him. They live in the forest about half a days ride from here. He's a good tanner - there are probably skins he prepared even in this fort, but as you can imagine they keep themselves to themselves. Isola disguises herself and trades at the markets near Shrewsbury and Burley when she has to, but as far as anyone else knows she died two years back and he does not exist."

"And you think that this Osric will help us?" Arthur did not look convinced. "If I send for him will he come?"

"No." Guinevere shook her head vehemently. "If you drag him here then he, Isola and their child face far more danger from the Woads and your people than the Saxons. Let me go - let me take the sword to them and find out if he knows anything of it."

"I am not sending you out into the path of God knows what unescorted," Arthur said fiercely. Unconsciously his hand tightened around hers and she pulled it free with a wince.

"If you send an army to find them they will flee," she said quietly. "Isola was never much of a fighter but Osric was. Hunt them and they'll run until there is nowhere else to run, and then…" Guinevere sighed. "They won't let themselves be taken."

Arthur realised the truth of his wife's words and sighed heavily. "Not alone. Choose your guards but you are not travelling alone." She nodded, and voiced the unacknowledged regret that neither of them dared voice.

"They need you here," she whispered. Getting to her feet, she crossed the room swiftly and was gone before either Arthur or Lancelot had time to argue with her.

* * *

Brennus stumbled down the last two stairs that lead from the healing rooms to the courtyard and swore under his breath. The damp weather made his bad hip ache, and he took a long swallow of ale as a temporary pain killer. There were herbs in his room that would provide a far more effective cure for his discomfort, but there were stairs to be negotiated first, and the alcohol at least dulled the worst of the pain. Limping slightly, he squinted in the darkness - the braziers were lit, but his eyes were not what they once were, and the cobblestones could be treacherous to the unwary walker. Rubbing a hand over his mouth to wipe away the ale, he thought of the events of the past couple of days. He was a healer not a fighter - had always been so even as a young man, although those memories faded almost daily it seemed. Sometimes he wondered at the strangeness of life. When he had been young and strong his days were spent helping birth babies, stitching minor wounds and curing fevers. Now that he was old and tired and longing for peace the whole world seemed to have shifted on its axis. Saxons? Witches? With a sigh, he swallowed the last of the ale and considered just dropping the jug onto the ground. 

The noise was so quiet that for a moment he thought he had imagined it; indeed he shook his head wearily and mentally called himself a stupid old man. He was about to put it down to the alcohol, or the Gods forbid senility, when he heard it again. A whining cry, almost a whimper. Brennus paused, his eyes trying and failing to discern what lay in the shadows. It was rare but not unknown for the prostitutes at the wall to abandon unwanted babies, and inwardly he prayed that he had heard a puppy or cat, for the last thing he needed was a wailing infant to take care of. Clicking his tongue reassuringly, he moved carefully towards the noise.

"Here dog," he said softly, "here cat." Nothing but silent darkness greeted his attempts at cajoling whatever it was out of the shadows and Brennus gave a sigh of relief. Obviously whatever had made the noise had fled. He was about to turn, when something that he had assumed was a shadow moved and slunk whisper soft towards him. The healer froze, suddenly confused.

"Here dog.." His voice died away when the light caught the animal's eyes. Bright as firelight they burned in the darkness, and with a sudden chill of fear, Brennus realised that he was not looking at a dog, Stumbling backwards, he tripped over something large and warm, his cry silenced by the jaws that closed around his throat.

**A/N Exposition, exposition, exposition and a cliffhanger - sorry, I don't mind if you flame me. (oh and it isn't a tiger of that's what you are thinking ;) I'm on a bit of a high as I now get to put letters after my name - yup, I have got my exam results and I passed my BA in English and history! Sorry to sound all smug and annoying but I'm still very excited (and have been drunk quite a lot of the past few days - student union bar, how I will miss you). On a more relevant note, thanks very much kind reviewers, I hope that this chapter isn't too all over the place. I would say that I'd update very soon, but there is a certain book about a certain wizard that I'm itching to get my hands on this weekend : )**

**Sorry for the rambling, hope everyone is ok and enjoying the summer - love Homeric**


	10. Chapter 10

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

For the second time in two days, Rowan awoke to strange surroundings. Casting off the mantle of slumber proved more difficult than usual - her limbs were heavy, her head clouded, and for a moment she wondered if this too was a dream. She struggled to untangle herself from the blankets, banging her elbow on the headboard of the bed as she did so, and swiftly revised that idea. The bright bloom of pain made her yelp, and the barely stifled laugh that came from the other corner of the room cleared her head better than a bucket of cold water poured over her head.

Rubbing her arm, she surreptitiously checked that her clothing was decent before looking towards the man slumped on the bench in the corner. Lancelot's dark hair and clothing melted into the shadows, but his eyes gleamed with an intensity that echoed the embers in the fireplace. There was no-one else in the room, and Rowan tucked her legs under herself, nervously smoothing the worn dress she wore. She felt hot and nervous, and realising that she was tapping what must be a very irritating rhythm on the pillow beside her, she hurriedly tucked her hands into her lap.

Lancelot watched her unease with amusement. Such a fierce little thing she looked, curled up and tense as though she expected him to leap upon her at any moment. He caught a flash of blue when her eyes flicked towards him, but it was quickly covered by the dark tangle of her hair when she once again dropped her head.

"Peace, Rowan," he said quietly. "I assure you that you are safe enough with me."

She wrinkled her nose at that assertion, lifting her head and watching him warily.

"The last time I was alone with you we were both almost killed by a Saxon, Sir knight," she retorted. "Forgive me for being a little ill at ease."

"A Saxon that you yourself killed," Lancelot pointed out. Getting to his feet, he walked over to the fireplace and examined a piece of wood before tossing onto the fire. "Speaking of which, I owe you my thanks. You probably saved my life out there in the courtyard."

"By killing that man." The words tripped off her tongue clumsy and unfamiliar. Fidgeting, Rowan looked away from the young man who watched her. "I didn't mean… I mean I'm not sorry, but…" She dug her fingernails into her palms in frustration. "I'm not a.." her voice died away, but Lancelot anticipated her next words.

"You're not a killer." His words were calm, without judgement. "You did what you had to to survive, Rowan; do you think that Saxon would have wasted a seconds thought on you or I if he had done what he meant to last night?"

"No." Rowan shook her head. "But I'm not like him. I'm _not. _And neither are you."

Lancelot gave a small chuckle. "I wouldn't be so sure about that. I've killed many men in my time - women too. Do not believe the fanciful stories that are told around campfires; my brothers and I are soldiers, kill or be killed - that is our creed."

"Why?" Swinging her legs over the side of the bed, Rowan looked at Lancelot curiously. "When I was little I always thought when I heard stories and legends that there was something noble, something heroic about battles, about killing. It isn't true. It's just blood and pain and burying the dead while the men who don't even fight sign bits of parchment afterwards. You are free - I know the tales of the Samartian knights - you could go home if you wanted to."

"Go home?" Lancelot's eyes flashed dangerously, and within a couple of strides he reached the bed that Rowan sat upon. "Go home to what, girl?" He bit out. "Pretty stories are made up for pretty girls." He brushed a finger over Rowan's cheek before pulling his hand away. "What do you think would happen if I returned home to a land I barely remember, to a family who probably believe me dead? I left as a boy, I will not return as a weapon of Rome."

"They deserve to know the truth," Rowan whispered. "Aren't you worried that they are waiting for you?"

"Whether I return to them or not, what they wait for has long since died." Lancelot caught himself before he could say anything more and turned away from the girl. He was not one for sharing his thoughts, and to have done so in this way made him feel vulnerable and defensive. Walking over to the fireplace, he picked up the poker and prodded the fire in an attempt to give himself time to settle down. Rowan was still watching him, pretty in the firelight, her knees tucked against her chest as though she were trying to protect herself. Wearily, Lancelot wondered if he should bed her. It would stop her questions and perhaps take her mind off her sister's death. He could make it good for her - for the both of them. He met her eyes and abandoned the idea - she wasn't ready for intimacy and he suddenly felt very tired. Arthur had left him in charge of the girl and if there was one thing that he still clung to it was Arthur. Arthur's vision, Arthur's friendship - Arthur who had sent and led he and his friends through hell. Running his hand through his hair, Lancelot walked over to the bed at the other end of the room.

"Get some sleep," he said to Rowan. "I'll keep watch."

"You don't have to," she replied quietly. "It'll be dawn soon and I'm not tired. I'll wake you if anything happens."

"Very well." Wearily he sat down gratefully, his eyes closing almost involuntarily. _When was the last time he had slept?_ He wondered. The past few days were fading into shades of grey, and unbuckling his hauberk and his sword, he stretched his cramped limbs. The door was locked from the inside and they were safe enough. With a sigh, he settled down on the bed and closed his eyes. Sleep came swiftly, and he did not move when Rowan padded across the room and carefully laid a blanket over him.

* * *

Guinevere shivered, an involuntary movement that had far more to do with her jittery nerves than the dampness of the early morning air. This was not the first time that she had made the journey to see her friend, but it was the first time she had set out with guards accompanying her. She had known Eadgyth, the Woad who kept his horse close to her side, for years, as she had Dayan who led the way, but she could not help but feel a little irritated at their presence. Merely telling Arthur about Isola had been breaking a promise - to arrive at her home with two strange men was downright treachery, and were it not for the fact that they might hold the clue to finding out what had happened to the unfortunate people killed in the forest, she would have turned her horse around and gone no further. 

"Are we close my lady?" Dayan looked around questioningly and Guinevere nodded in response. Nudging her mare's side with her heels, she passed the guard, ignoring his hushed protests. They had been travelling throughout the night, and she recognised the valley into which the stream they had been following poured. Dismounting, she quickly crossed her stirrups over the saddle and tugged the reins over her horse's head. Just visible amongst the trees the outline of a house was visible, the last faint wisps of smoke from the chimney indicating that the dwelling had been occupied very recently. Walking forward, Guinevere gestured for her companions to stay back and looped her horse's reins over a sturdy branch before approaching the house.

"Do not be afraid," she called out. "It is I, Guinevere. I come in search of help, the men I travel with are guards nothing more - I give you my word that we do not mean you harm."

"Spoken like a true queen." Isola slid from behind a large oak tree, an arrow unwaveringly trained at her friend. "But you gave me your word once before, and it would seem that it does not hold true."

Guinevere nodded. Unbuckling her bow, she dropped it to the ground and slowly turned towards Eadgyth and Dayan.

"Go," she called out. "Go back to where we camped last night, I will return to you before nightfall."

"My queen.." Eadgyth shook his head and glanced at his companion. "We cannot allow you to stay here alone, surely you realise…"

"Arthur told you to follow my orders," Guinevere said sharply. "I am ordering you to retreat. I appreciate your concern, but you are of no use here. Go."

Muttering under their breath and looking mutinous, the two Woads pulled their horses back and vanished into the forest. Guinevere watched them go, the skin between her shoulder blades twitching when she realised that there were now two bows trained upon her.

"Good morning, Osric," she said quietly. "I am sorry to inconvenience you and your wife."

"Inconvenience us?" A big man with light brown hair emerged from the forest. His words were heavily accented, but there was no mistaking the emotion behind them. Without taking his eyes from his target or lowering his bow, he walked over to his wife. "I have heard that you married the Roman, what did he offer you for our lives?"

"Nothing." Guinevere looked at them steadily. "Your secret is safe - I will do nothing to put you in harms way and neither will Arthur. I ask your advice, Osric, that is all. Innocent people are dying - Woads, villagers… You are the only one who might be able to help."

The sudden wail of a child's cry echoed through the trees, and Isola flinched as though she had been struck a physical blow. Glancing desperately at her husband, she lowered her bow.

"Guinevere…"

"No harm will come to your child," the young queen said earnestly . "I'm sorry that I came here - believe me, I would not have done so if there had been any other way. Find your child - there is no need to hide. I will take as little of your time as possible and neither I or my guards will disturb you again, but please grant me a moment to explain myself."

Isola and Osric exchanged glances, before the dark-haired woman ran off into the trees, returning a couple of minutes later with a young boy in her arms. He looked at the visitor with far more happiness than his parents had done, dark eyes widening beneath his thatch of blond hair.

"He's beautiful," Guinevere said honestly. The child giggled and hid his head against his mother's shoulder, and Isola gave a reluctant smile.

"Takes after his father, luckily." Osric's paternal pride over came his animosity and he finally lowered his bow. Rubbing a big hand over his son's head and down onto his wife's back, he looked at the woman in front of him sharply. "If you truly mean us no harm then say your piece and be gone, Guinevere. We have enough enemies without you bringing more to our door. What is so important that you would risk all our lives like this?"

Guinevere tucked aside the long tunic that she wore over her riding clothes., revealing that she wore not one, but two swords buckled around her waist. Unsheathing the larger of the two, she offered it to the big Saxon.

"We found this upon a man that tried to kill one of Arthur's knights," she said quietly. "We wondered if you might understand the runes upon it. There's something - be they Saxons, rebels, or something else, killing people in the forest. No reason for it, no warnings ; please, if you know anything then let us stop it before anyone else dies at their hands."

Osric took the sword reluctantly, swinging it up so that it lay flat upon his palms.

"Go Isola, take Gareth inside." The Saxon's voice was calm, but his face had blanched, throwing his blue eyes into sharp relief. Isola opened her mouth to protest, but Oscric pushed her gently towards the house. "Please, love, I'll be with you soon." He watched as the young woman made her way down the path, and gave an attempt at a smile when his son gave a gummy grin over his shoulder, before turning his attention to Guinevere.

"Do you know where the man you took this from got this?" he asked fiercely. "Do you know what you've done by bringing it here?" The big man was trembling, and suddenly afraid, Guinevere took a step backwards, mentally working out how she could retrieve her bow without angering Osric further.

"It's a sword," she said warily. "That's all I know."

"It's not just a sword…" tossing the weapon to the woman in front of him, Osric looked around the forest warily before muttering several words in his native tongue. "Take it and go," he said finally. "They'll be looking for it, and they won't find it here. I don't know how you got it and I don't care, but if you have any brains at all then you'll throw it in the sea. They'll be coming for it, and believe me, you don't want them to find you too."

"Who'll be coming?" Guinevere looked at the sword in her hand with confusion. "Why is it important?"

"It's not a "who", it's a "what"," Osric replied tersely. " That sword belongs to something far beyond your knowledge. If the man who wielded it is dead then they'll be looking for a new leader, and you don't want to be getting in the way when they do."

"I don't understand." Guinevere huffed in annoyance and lifted the sword she held up to the light, "Who, what? You aren't making sense."

"The sword you hold belonged to an alpha male. The head of a wolf pack," Osric said tersely. "It's passed down from generation to generation. They are understood in Saxon society, left alone, but if they are over here…" he shook his head. "Do you know who killed it?"

"What have wolves got to do with the sword?" Thoroughly confused, the young queen suddenly wished that she had not sent her companions away so hastily. "I don't…"

"Understand?" Osric shot her a contemptuous look. "You aren't supposed to. Ousiders aren't supposed to know. You've got a werewolf pack to reckon with Guinevere, and unless you return the sword and give them whoever killed their alpha to them, then you had better prepare for war, and believe me, this won't be like anything you've fought before."

**A/N Don't worry, I haven't forgotten about Brennus - you'll find out about him in the next chapter ;) ****Thanks very much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, and hello, new readers. I hope you are all ok and (for those in the UK) aren't underwater!**


	11. Chapter 11

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Eight kicked the ground irritably and gave one last disgruntled look at the tavern. Cassie's fair hair gleamed in the morning light as she tossed it back, laughing at Lucan's joke in what, Eight thought, an entirely false and irritating way. _Silly cow can't even cook,_ Vanora's daughter muttered to herself, but it seemed that Lucan was happy to overlook such shortcomings. _Not that she cared, _Eight told herself firmly. What was it to her if they courted and got married and had a dozen children? Lucan would soon realise his mistake when Cassie got fat and ugly and he spent every night eating burnt meat. Then he'd wish that he'd had seen what was in front of him the whole time, and even if he begged she wouldn't let him… Jerked out of her reverie by her mother's voice, Eight jumped and scuttled round the side of the stables. Ignoring Lucan and Cassiewas much easier to do when she didn't have to talk to them, and knowing her mother, she'd set her to cleaning tables as soon as she got a glimpse of her.

The little alley was narrow and smelt horrible, but it was a sure way to escape detection, leading as it did to the back of the healing rooms. Lynette might be working there, and if so she might have a couple of jobs for her to do. Her mother couldn't complain if she returned home with a few coins, Eight thought, slightly cheered. Skipping nimbly over a foul smelling puddle, she promptly stepped in something slimy and soft. With a grimace of distaste, she raised her foot and looked down, bracing herself for the entirely unwelcome sight of newly disturbed dog droppings. Unbalanced as she was, the horror of what lay around her left her no means to steady herself, and with a cry she fell, landing heavily on her side. Scrambling to her knees, she gave a yelp as her gaze rested on what remained of Brennus' face, and gibbering with terror she turned and fled. Several people looked around with interest when the wild-eyed girl bolted into the courtyard, but as usual it was Vanora who saw to the heart of things at once.

"Eight!" Her voice was sharp as she hurried over. Her daughter's dress was stained with what looked like blood, her skin pale as parchment. "Where are you hurt? What happened?"

Unable to speak, Eight flung herself into her mother's warm embrace, gaining strength from the familiar softness.

"I'm alright," she whispered. "It's Brennus, he's dead." The words were almost inaudible, but Vanora caught them and looked down at her child worriedly.

"Sweetling what do you mean? Where is he?"

"All over," Eight said, not daring to look behind her. "He's all over the passageway."

………………………………...

Lucy tugged her dress over her head, and with a little effort than usual over the swell of her stomach. Holding her breath, she looked at the bump thoughtfully - there was still six months of this to go and already she felt a little ungainly - not that she had ever been particularly graceful as Vanora had pointed out. _What would she look like when she was ready to give birth? _she wondered. Llynya had managed to look serene and beautiful, Vanora barely seemed to notice her pregnancies; they certainly didn't seem to slow her down anyway, but she herself was younger, clumsier, and altogether less experienced than her friends. Surreptitiously she bundled up her cloak and stuffed it down the front of her dress. The lump stuck out prominently, and turning from side to side she imagined trying to walk around like that and wondered whether she would be able to reach out to Tristan when his occasional nightmares claimed him.

"Lucy?" The voice was tired but amused, and turning, she found Tristan watching her from the bed. "What are you doing?"

"Practicing," she said sheepishly. "You know, for when I get big."

The scout grunted, resting his head upon his elbow and beckoning his lover closer. With deft fingers he pulled the cloak from her dress and tossed it aside. Running his fingers over the swell of her belly, he lifted his head and kissed it.

"You'll be big soon enough - and no doubt complaining about it. No need to rush things."

"Hmmm." Lucy sat down on the bed, dropping her head when Tristan pulled her down for a kiss. "Do you…" she bit her lip, suddenly a little hesitant. _"Will you still love me when I am as big as a cow, _was what she wanted to say, but she couldn't bring herself to utter the words. "Do you think we'll fit in the bed together, you know, later on?"

"If we don't then I'll make a bigger one," Tristan replied with a yawn. "Or we can both sleep in the stables."

Wrinkling her nose in mock disgust, Lucy gave the scout a grin. "Was that a joke? Oh, I shall tell Arthur of this - his scout making a joke - he shall make it a feast day! All at the fort will stare in wonder at the King's scout making merry with…" Tristan silenced her the best way he knew how, kissing her thoroughly until she was as pliant and sated as a warm kitten, albeit a somewhat stocky and untidy one. Tucking her head against his shoulder, Lucy tried not to squirm when Tristan traced long fingers over her ribs and down onto the curve of her hip. "The man that attacked Lancelot is dead, isn't he?" Lucy said eventually. "That means that the danger is over."

Tristan's hand stilled upon her waist. It was becoming easier these days to lose himself in comfort and affection, but while his heart may have been swayed by his emotions, his instincts were not. Lucy wanted to believe that they were safe, that there was no threat to Arthur and his people. While he wished with all his heart that that was the case, he would not lie to her.

"What killed the people in the forest was not the work of one man," he said quietly. "We must remain alert."

Lucy stilled, before swinging her legs over the bed and getting to her feet. Picking up her shawl, she tossed it over her shoulders.

"I'd better go," she said with a half-hearted smile. "Vanora will be wondering where I am."

"Wait, I'll go with you." Tristan sat up, shoving his braids from his eyes and looking for his clothes, but Lucy quickly shook her head. "There's no need - the soldiers are coming, listen." She nodded her head towards the door, the thud of boots echoing in the passageway outside. "Come and find me later, Vanora is killing a chicken today, I'll keep some back for you." Without looking back, she walked swiftly to the door and shut it behind her before Tristan had a chance to stop her.

* * *

Rowan stretched her arms and yawned widely. She had kept her word to Lancelot and kept watch during the night, but although she hadn't been particularly sleepy, the experience had still been more than a little uncomfortable. Each whispering scurry of the rats in the thatch above had made her jump, and more than once she had frozen in fear when a log in the fireplace spat and sizzled. Silly little noises in the darkness that she knew to ignore, but that now seemed to take on a strange malevolence. The young man that slept on the bed at the other end of the room seemed blissfully unaware of such phantom dangers, and Rowan had found herself concentrating on him rather than the flickers of firelight and the shadows that danced upon the walls.

Lancelot had slept peacefully, and in slumber his face held none of the faintly mocking hardness that he displayed when he was awake. Dark lashes resting upon high cheekbones, tousled curls gleaming in the faint light, he looked more of a boy than a man, albeit a boy who slept with two blades carefully placed beneath his bed. When he had awakened the illusion was gone, as was any semblance of intimacy. They had barely spoken; indeed he looked almost embarrassed to have fallen asleep in front of her. Rowan nodded politely when he walked her silently to the tavern and almost ordered her to stay there until he collected her later, but inwardly she was confused and not a little irritated. True, she was at present dependant on the goodwill of Lancelot and his commander, but hadn't she also saved the knight's life? Hadn't he trusted her to keep watch while he slept? She was not a child and would not be a burden for as long as she could possibly help it, she told herself firmly. Llynya had seemed kind enough - perhaps she would know where she could find respectable employment. Her talent was with needlecraft, but she had some experience in in saddlery, and if there were no opportunities for either at the wall then she would make a decent enough maid or cleaner, she thought to herself. Anything would be better than being a burden upon people that had already been more than to kind to her. Her thoughts were interrupted by the utter confusion that greeted them in the courtyard.

Guards scuttled here and there, groups of children watching them with wide eyes. Bors and Galahad were mounting their horses, a dozen Woads doing the same beside them. Everywhere there was noise and panic, and it took a moment for Gawain's deep voice to penetrate the cacophony.

"Where have you been?" He asked Lancelot irritably, walking up to the two new arrivals. "Arthur's looking for you - looks like the bloke your girl killed wasn't working alone."

"I'm not his…" Rowan retorted before her words were cut off. Neither Gawain nor Lancelot paid her much attention.

"Brennus is dead," Gawain coninued tersely. "And not just dead - makes that pussycat back in Hythe look like, well a pussycat. Bits everywhere. Whatever it is got past the guards and could be anywhere. No-one saw anything."

"Another tiger?" Lancelot said in disbelief. "How many of the bloody things are there in this country?"

"We don't know what it is, yet," Gawain sighed. "Could be anything. You were attacked by a Saxon yesterday, and when did they ever sneak around like Woads? This might be some sort of a trap."

Rowan listened to the conversation with bemused unease. She had met Brennus, he had helped her, and by the sounds of things he had died horribly. The knights were speaking of things that she didn't understand, and it was with relief that she saw Llynya. Lancelot grabbed her arm almost by reflex when she left his side, but gave a reluctant nod when she pointed towards Gawain's wife. Hurrying over to the dark haired woman, Rowan gave a last glance back to her protector and saw him watching her intently, deaf to the pale haired knight who was clearly irritated at his friend's inattention.

"Rowan!" Llynya smiled and walked swiftly over to the girl. "How pretty you are now that you aren't covered in mud. I hope that Lancelot has been behaving himself." The words were said in jest, but Llynya's eyes were a little too searching for Rowan to feel entirely comfortable.

"Sir Lancelot has been very kind," she said quietly. "I wondered if I might talk to you, that is if you have the time?"

"Certainly." The sudden wail of a child made the older girl turn towards the tavern worriedly. "Give me a moment, my son is hungry and I'd better settle him before Vanora chucks us both out of here." She gave a wink and nodded towards the kitchens. "Lucy's back there, if you find her she'll sort out some breakfast no doubt. I'll only be a minute."

"Thank- you." Heading in the direction Llynya had motioned towards, Rowan stepped tentatively into the kitchen area at the back of the tavern. While the courtyard was an ants nest of hustle and bustle, the kitchen was strangely quiet, only the bubbling of a large kettle of water suspended over the fire breaking the silence. The air was tinged with the acrid smell of burning, a scent that had obviously originated from the pan of eggs that had not so much been scrambled as incinerated. Walking further into the room, Rowan wondered if she should call out, before realising that there was no need to do so.

A young blonde girl sat in the corner of the kitchen, her knees tucked into her chest, her curtain of hair obscuring her face. Nonetheless, Rowan realised that she must be Lucy, the girl that she had been sent to find.

"Hello?" Walking over tentatively, Rowan dropped to her knees. "Are you alright?"

The girl sniffed and regarded her with red-rimmed eyes. "I'm fine," she said quietly. "You're the girl that came in with Tristan aren't you? It should be me who is asking you if you are alright."

"I'm…" Rowan hunted for the right word unsuccessfully. "My name is Rowan, Llynya told me to come here, do you want me to get her for you?"

"No." Lucy rubbed a hand over her eyes and tucked a few stray wisps of hair behind her ears. "She worries enough already." Getting to her feet, she gave Rowan a decent attempt at a smile. "I'm sorry for all this - I'm a terrible cook at the best of times and I'm sure that you must be hungry. Van's off seeing to Eight, she found… the… I mean…" Lucy sniffed again, and wiped her nose on her sleeve.

"Brennus?" Rowan didn't need to hear the blonde girl's reply to know that this was what had upset her. "He seemed a nice man, I'm sorry for his loss."

Lucy gave a half hearted smile. "He wasn't a nice man at all," she said wryly. "He was bad tempered and crotchety and would argue six ways to Sunday even when he was wrong. But he was my friend. He always spoke the truth and a lot of people at the fort would not be alive were it not for his skills, my Tristan included."

"You are Tristans…." Rowan hesitated.

"Betrothed," Lucy said with an amused sigh. "Don't worry, it came as a shock to he and I too. Stupid man is harder to get through to than honeycomb in a bees nest."

"And yet you persevered?" Rowan took the pan from Lucy politely and deftly scraped the burnt remains of the eggs from it. The scout's betrothed was obviously far more wilful than her appearance first suggested, and she felt a bitter pang when she realised that Lucy reminded her of Alyce a little, despite their very different colouring.

"'course I did." Lucy smiled. "He was worth it. And speaking of knights, I hear that your quarters are next to Lancelot's. Has he been behaving himself or should I send Vanora up with the spoon?"

"The spoon?" Rowan looked perplexed before following the blonde girl's nod. Above the serving hatch a long wooden spoon hung from a hook. "What's that for?"

"Come payday, a couple of hours after sunset and you'll find out," Lucy said mysteriously. "Nothing stops a fight quicker than Vanora's spoon. Unless it's her and Bors," she amended. "Bucket of water usually does the trick there."

"Oh." Unable to think of a suitable reply, Rowan took the pan from Lucy and set it upon the stove. Through the gap in the serving hatch she could see Lancelot and Gawain now joined by several different knights, and wondered what they were talking about, and what had happened to the healer. _Haven't brought them much luck, have you? _a little voice whispered in her head. _What if the Saxons followed you here? What if people die because of you?_

"Rowan?" Lucy looked a little confused. "Are you alright?"

"I'm fine." Holding her hand out to accept the egg that the other girl offered, Rowan smiled. "Just hungry."

"Then let's eat." With a wonky smile, Lucy set to demolishing one of the newly baked loaves that had been delivered that morning. "Even the king himself makes time for breakfast."

Rowan chuckled, and the two girls lost themselves in the familiar routine of flipping eggs and toasting bread, pushing darker thoughts aside, at least for the moment.

**A/N This chapter was brought to you with the frankly irritating sound of my cat's snoring - more constructive criticism is welcomed, I hope that I didn't send you to sleep too! That said, thanks very much kind readers and reviewers. I'm afraid this story looks like becoming a bit of an epic - I know that I'm slow at getting to the point but I hate rushing characters. Thanks for your patience. **


	12. Chapter 12

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Rowan found herself relaxing as the morning went on. Lucy was pleasant company, and as the tavern became busier she lost herself in work; cooking and cleaning, serving the customers and collecting the dirty plates. Although she had no experience in tavern work before, she found it fairly easy to pick up, and with Llynya's return things ran fairly smoothly despite Vanora's absence.

Returning from settling her son and distracted by the clatter of hooves through the gate, Llynya had told them rather breathlessly of the soldier that had returned from the forest bearing the body of a big wolf, its jaws still bloody, its heart stilled by an arrow to the chest. Brennus's death had been horrible, but it seemed that it had been nothing more sinister than bad luck and a wolf whose hunger had outweighed its fear of humans. Now the skin of the animal was displayed in the courtyard, stretched upon wooden poles and a source of fascination to most of the children. Guards were reinforcing the fences, but , as Lucy said reasonably, what were the odds of more than one wolf being that bold? Attacks were practically unknown outside the more isolated villages. They would do better to worry about the Saxons that still lurked in the forest, and aside from one ill fated attack had remained quiet. The fort was safe, the fort _had _to be safe, and while all who lived in it remained alert, the extra guards patrolling were reassuring, and people did their best to keep their normal routines.

"D'you want a break Rowan?" Llynya tucked a sweaty strand of hair behind her ear and smiled at the younger girl. "The rush is dying down and I bet you're hungry. Grab something to eat and have a rest for a few moments."

"Are you sure?" Finally stopping to catch her breath, Rowan realised that her feet were killing her, and indeed she suddenly felt ravenous. Taking the end of a loaf of bread that Lucy had just cut, she laughed as the blonde haired girl "harrumphed" and took it off her, spreading it thickly with butter, putting it on a plate and ladling a generous portion of scrambled eggs over it before handing it back.

"You're too skinny: when you stand sideways I can hardly see you." Lucy grinned to take the sting out of her words. "Back me up Llynya, don't you think that Rowan needs feeding up?"

The older woman rolled her eyes and handed Rowan a cup of water before ushering her towards an empty table near the kitchens.

"For someone who talks a lot Lucy, you still haven't worked out the meaning of tact."

Lucy shrugged and winked at Rowan. "I live with Tristan; he's a good teacher in a lot of things, but polite conversation isn't one them. Some of his lessons however…"

Llynya put up a hand to stop her friend elaborating further. "I don't want to know." Patting Rowan on the shoulder in a friendly fashion, she hurried back into the kitchen just in time to prevent Lucy from adding too much salt to the afternoon's stew.

Rowan smiled and wolfed down her lunch. Scraping up the last of the eggs, she watched Lucy and Llynya working and occasional bickering and felt a pang of bittersweet sorrow. How many times had she and Alyce acted in exactly the same way? The two women were kind and may perhaps prove to be friends, she thought hopefully. As different as the sun and the moon, the two women's completely different appearances and personalities complimented each other, but both had a confidence about them that enabled them to brush off the clumsy attentions of amorous customers and snap at troublemakers twice their size. _That's what you have to learn, _Rowan thought to herself. _It's just you now. You'll stand or fall by the decisions that you make in the next few days, so make sure that you make the right ones. _For a moment her thoughts strayed to Lancelot. She couldn't quite work out what she felt towards him, or how she should behave when placed in his obviously reluctant care. On the one hand he made no attempt to hide the fact that looking after her was an irritation and that he would rather be doing other things, but on the other he had let his guard down around her, had spoken to her honestly, and she could not believe that such openness was a common occurrence.

"Penny for them?" The quiet voice beside her came as a surprise, and Rowan looked up almost guiltily at Kyrie. The slender girl smiled gently and nodded towards the kitchen. "Those two working you hard? I don't blame you for daydreaming, I do it myself from time to time."

"I was… I mean." Rowan gave Kyrie a half smile. "Lucy and Llynya have been lovely, I was just thinking, that's all."

"About Lancelot?" Kyrie stifled a grin when Rowan's cheeks coloured. "Oh don't worry, there's nothing wrong with that. He's a handsome man, utterly unreliable unless your name's Arthur and you want to send him off to get himself killed on pointless missions, but you could do much worse."

"I wasn't, I mean, I'm not doing.." Rowan's hasty protests were ignored by Kyrie whose attention had been caught by a group of people entering the tavern.

"You can tell him yourself," she said. "Here he comes now. Oh, and before I forget, Bors said to tell you that Tom is doing much better. You can go and see him later if you want, he asked after you."

Before Rowan had a chance to reply, Galahad had marched up to the dark haired girl and picked her up, kissing her briefly before nudging her towards the kitchens.

"I'm hungry, woman," he growled in a reasonable imitation of Bors. "Bring your man food."

Kyrie snorted and gave the young knight an appraising look. "You do know that Vanora's taught me how to use her spoon don't you?"

Galahad's mock fierce look melted into an innocent smile. "And you'll use it well I'm sure, my sweetest flower of springtime." Kyrie muttered something that sounded like "damn right," before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving a rather flustered Rowan with her beloved and Lancelot.

"Rowan." Galahad gave the flushed girl sat at the table a reassuring smile. "I trust you slept well?"

"Fine thank you, sir." Getting to her feet, she bobbed a curtsey, collected her empty plate and slid towards the kitchen all without meeting Lancelot's eyes. Too preoccupied to look where she was going, she promptly tripped over a table leg and would have fallen were it not for Lancelot's swift reflexes catching her around the waist and pulling her uncomfortably close to his solid body.

"Are you alright?" he asked, brown eyes concerned as he met her gaze.

"I'm fine." Rowan gave a watery smile and inwardly kicked herself. She was twenty years old, she had fought off a Saxon, survived a massacre and yet was unable to prevent herself from making an utter fool of herself in front of the one person that she most wanted to prove her strength and independence to.

"Don't know how you do it, Lance, " Galahad said with amusement. "You and women always falling into your arms - if I didn't have Kyrie then I'd ask you your secret."

"I'm not sleeping with Lancelot!" Rowan's flustered voice came out as little more than an outraged squeak. Galahad looked surprised, Lancelot raised an eyebrow, and Rowan found herself hastily amending the statement. "He slept with me." Realising what she had just said, she stumbled over her words. "I mean at the other end of the room. And I didn't sleep, he did…" Her voice trailed off, and not for the first time she wished that had died at the hands of the Saxons.

Lancelot took pity on her and made a joke of the situation. Aware that several patrons of the tavern were listening avidly, and that his charge was becoming more uncomfortable by the moment, he did his best to speak clearly.

"Alas," he said with a sigh, "Rowan appears to be immune to my not inconsiderable charms and declined my offer to warm her bed for her. I'd rather that you didn't tell the entire fort though, I have a reputation to uphold after all."

"I'm not sure that anything short of castration could damage your reputation my friend," Galahad said with a smile. "However I must congratulate the lovely Rowan," he gave her a wink, "with having more brains than most of the other girls around here."

"Remind me to bed Kyrie when I get the chance," Lancelot called at his friend's departing back.

"She'd never have you," Galahad shot back without rancour. "My girl's got more sense than that." Kicking the kitchen door shut behind him, Lancelot and Rowan were left with only a dozen amused tavern customers for company.

"Don't mind him." Lancelot stifled a smile at Rowan's obvious discomfort. "And don't believe everything that you hear either. I came to take you to see Tom, that is if you want to."

Rowan smiled. "I would, thank you." Suddenly finding the whole situation extremely absurd, she giggled. "That is if I'm not harming your reputation."

"It'll survive." Eyes alight with amusement, Rowan suddenly looked like the girl that she must have been before the terrible events of the past week, Lancelot realised with a jolt. Not a beauty to rival Guinevere, but attractive yes, definitely pretty with her green eyes and chestnut hair. _Not that she was at all his type, _he told himself firmly. Squashing down any inappropriate feelings, he decided against taking her elbow and instead led the way out of the tavern.

* * *

Guinevere urged her horse faster, the drum of the mare's hoof beats giving her a brief respite from the thoughts that whipped through her mind faster than the gathering storm clouds in the sky above. She and her guards were only a couple of hours from home, but despite her desire for speed and the ache within her heart that could only be assuaged by being in Arthur's arms again, she had to fight her growing fear. Osric had told her the truth about the sword that hung at her side, seeming to grow heavier by the second, and unless he had lied to her (and that thought would have been a comfort were it not for the irrefutable terror in his eyes) Briton faced a powerful and hitherto unknown enemy. Realising that her guards were struggling to keep up, Guinevere slowed her horse to a loping canter and let Dayan and Eadgyth draw up alongside her. She had told them what she had learned, reasoning that if anything happened to her on the way home there was at least two other ways that the message would reach her husband, but even they had struggled to contain their disbelief. 

_Werewolves? _The very idea was ridiculous. Of course there had been stories told when she had been little and listened to tales of ghosts and demons around the fire, comforted by her father's presence . Stories discarded when she grew older and experienced the bright terror of battle of battle, bloodshed that dulled the memory of such childish fears. But her father was dead now, and she knew that myths did not always have the courtesy to remain harmless stories. But what was she going to tell Arthur? Osric and Isola were at this moment fleeing, she had no doubt about that, and she felt a pang of sorrow at the fact that she would probably never see her friend again. The bag of gold coins she had slipped into their son's cradle when she kissed him goodbye might help them forge an easier future, but she was well aware that without her interference they would have been happier remaining where they were.

Eadgyth glanced at her, and acknowledging his unspoken disapproval, she slowed her mare still further. There was nothing to be gained by exhausting the horses - their progress would only be slowed if one of them went lame or proved too tired to go on. Guiltily patting her chestnut's sweaty neck, Guinevere whispered apologetic words in her native tongue.

My lady.." Eadgyth exchanged an uncomfortable look with Dayan. "I do not presume to speak out of turn.."

"But you think that Osric is mad and so am I for believing him." Guinevere had anticipated this conversation with Arthur and his knights, but it still came as an unwelcome surprise to have to speak her mind this soon.

"He is a Saxon." Dayan's tone was neutral, but the expression on his usually handsome face left no doubt of his feelings regarding the trustworthiness of the pale haired invaders. "Would he really wish to help his enemies? What would he gain from helping us?"

"He was afraid too," Guinevere said quietly.

"No doubt." Eadgyth echoed his friend's misgivings, "but afraid of what? Saxons have no place in this land. You yourself fought them - I've known you since you were a child, and I stood shoulder to shoulder with you when Arthur triumphed, as did Dayan, as did so many of your people still mourning loved ones lost to Saxon blades. Wolves that turn into men are tales told to children. Throw me in the dungeon if you wish, but think hard before you trust a Saxon's words."

Guinevere gave a faint smile. "I've had enough of dungeons and you are right, Eadgyth. I've fought beside you, I've lost people I loved to both Saxons and to Romans. I might be queen but I am still Guinevere - I would not have you or anyone else hold their tongue around me, especially in matters such as this." She sighed and flexed her stiff fingers around the reins in her hands. "But if all the world ignored everything that could not be explained by reason then my father would not be dead and I would not be alive. There are things that can't be ex…." her voice trailed off when her horse suddenly stopped dead, nostrils wide, neck muscles rigid. The mare backed up, ignoring her rider's commands, and it took all of Guinevere's strength to stop her mount from bolting. From the corner of her eye she saw Dayan's horse rear up, throwing him to the ground, but before she could warn Eadgyth several shapes raced from the trees and were upon them.

_Not wolves, _Guinevere thought with the tiny part of her brain that remained disassociated from the horror around her. _Not really. _And it was true; they were too big, too….unnatural. One bounded forward and grabbed Eadgyth's horse around the throat with powerful jaws, flipping the horse onto its back and trapping the rider beneath. Two more grabbed the scout before he had managed to unsheath his sword, tearing him apart, and fumbling for her bow, Guinevere was abruptly thrown forward when her horse bolted, fingers snagging the mare's sweat slicked mane by reflex. Frantically trying to regain her balance, she managed to grab the side of the saddle and right herself. Her bow was lost, the reins broken, and glancing backwards she saw two of the wolf creatures racing down the path towards them, their paws almost flying over the ground, closing the distance between them even as the safety of Hadrain's Wall loomed protective, reassuring and too far away between the trees.

**A/N. Sorry that this has taken a while to update - work is crazy at the moment (sorry K ) . Thanks kind reviewers, I hope everyone is having a good summer so far. **

**Looking at this story and it's predecessors (and the pages of scribbly notes that I keep), it seems that I have a rather mad amount of OCs that flit between the fics. I have a list of who is who, but I imagine I probably confuse a lot of you sometimes - hell I confuse myself a lot of the time! Would it make things easier if I put a "cast list" up on my profile? I do have one on my computer and am quite happy to send it out if anyone wants it, but I won't bother writing it out on my profile page unless it's going to be useful. Let me know if you'd like a copy.**


	13. Chapter 13

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

"It'll be alright Cass." Lucan gave the blonde girl a reassuring smile before tightening the girth on his pony's saddle. "The wolf's caught - you've seen it. Unless you're scared of rugs then it's not going to hurt you. The Saxon bloke is dead and there's been no reports of trouble. If you carry on worrying like this you'll end up crazier than Daft Meg down at the river."

Cassie placed her hands upon her hips and watched as her friend swung up into the saddle. The wolf might be dead but the forest was far from safe, and she could not quell a feeling of unease as he and Vanora's two eldest boys, Two and Three, readied their mounts and prepared to set off hunting.

"Your mother will be angry when she finds out.." she began, directing her words to the two teenagers who were already mounted and ready to ride. Both had inherited their father's stocky build and mother's brown eyes, and both watched the conversation between Lucan and Cassie with amusement. "You're not supposed to go out alone - I heard her say so."

"But she won't find out, will she?" Two raised an eyebrow at the younger girl warningly. "'cos no-ones going to tell her."

Cassie said nothing to this; she wasn't going to "tell" on her friends and they knew that. Giving an irritated huff, she did her best to glare at Three when he laughed at her. Lucan gave her an apologetic smile, but it was clear that he was too excited at being included in the older boys' adventure to show any real misgivings. Three and his brother often went out hunting, but this time they were searching for different quarry to the usual rabbits and deer. The wolf that had been killed had been a female, and overhearing a casual remark by one of the soldiers, both teenagers were convinced that she had only been vicious because she needed to feed cubs.

Cubs could be brought up to hunt like dogs, only bigger and better, Two reasoned to an enthralled Lucan and a very disapproving Cassie. After all wolves were just like dogs only without the training weren't they? And if Tristan could tame a hawk then why couldn't they tame a wolf cub?

"Lucan.." Cassie gave a last attempt at stopping the boys, but her arguments were lost as the trio clattered down the narrow path behind the stables, Lucan giving her a brief wave goodbye, Vanora's sons ignoring her completely.

"I hope the bloody wolves eat you!" She yelled at their departing backs. "And don't expect me to save dinner for you, or lie if…" her voice trailed off. They couldn't hear her, and wouldn't take any notice if they could. Worrying her bottom lip with her teeth, she made her way back to the small house she shared with her father. The pigs hadn't been fed yet nor the eggs collected from the chickens, and she'd be in trouble if it looked like she had been neglecting her duties. Nonetheless she gave a last glance back towards the forest. Two and Three weren't known for their brains or common sense, but this was the first time that Lucan had been included in their plans, and she could neither rationalise nor assuage the knot of worry that churned in her stomach.

* * *

Rowan followed Lancelot out of the tavern and pretended not to notice the amused expressions on Llynya and Lucys' faces. _It wasn't as though he had a choice in looking after her, _she told herself firmly, and the fact that everyone seemed to think that she was sleeping with the knight rankled. _Give it a couple of weeks when you're settled and don't have to have anything to do with him and they'll forget about all this, _she told herself firmly. Glaring defiantly at a small boy who looked at her escort with undisguised hero worship, Rowan promptly tripped over a stone and would have fallen were it not for Lancelot's sharp reflexes. 

"Careful." He grabbed her by the waist and righted her as though she weighed no more than thistledown. "I can carry you if you want, but people are already talking about us."

"I can do it." Very aware of Lancelot's dark eyes studying her and the warmth of his big body against her side, Rowan gave a slightly panicked smile. "The floor, I mean the road is bumpy. I mean it's trippy-uppy." It suddenly felt as though all the blood in her body had risen to her face to further advertise her embarrassment. A couple of swear words that had been greeted with horrified glee by her sister on the two occasions that she had used them flitted through her mind, but instead Rowan giggled. So much for being a heroine, so much for being anything other than what she was - a seamstress who had escaped death by the grace of whatever gods had seen fit to kill her family. Lancelot was smiling, his dark eyes dancing with amusement, although he was obviously doing his best to remain impassive. "I'm not doing very well am I?" Rowan said ruefully. "I'm sorry that you have to look after me - You don't need to, I'll be fine. Llynya says she'll find me work and I'm a good seamstress." She squared her shoulders defiantly. "You don't have to look after me."

"On the contrary," Lancelot replied calmly. "It's no trouble at all. Arthur is always urging me to expand my knowledge, and in the past few minutes I've already learnt that Kyrie knows how to wield Vanora's spoon and a new word. Trippy-uppy. " He watched with amusement when Rowan wrinkled her nose. Her hand swung against her skirt, almost but not quite brushing his, and he quelled a sudden desire to take it. Instead, he tapped her shoulder to indicate that they should take the path that led around the hay barn. The main path was quicker, but passed in front of the soldier's barracks, this way was quieter and they would not be bothered, Lancelot thought to himself. It had nothing to do with the fact that Rowan had already roused the interest of a couple of passing guards, he told himself. She was his charge, that was all. Nonetheless he glared at a couple of drunken men propped against the wall of the tavern and rested his hand against the hilt of his sword in a gesture that would be unmistakable to any soldier.

"I don't think that they are a threat," Rowan said cautiously. She had noticed Lancelot's tension and was a little confused by it. It was daylight and they were surrounded by people - what did he expect to happen? "I mean, they don't really seem to be all that with it to tell the truth." As though he had heard her, one of the dishevelled men was hoisted up by a couple of his friends and dragged unresisting away. "The wolf has been killed, but shouldn't you be worrying about the Saxons rather than your own people?"

Rowan looked at him trustingly, and Lancelot had a sudden urge to shake her. He knew that she came from a small village and was not used to the ways of larger towns, but she had already befriended Llynya and Kyrie - good people both of them, but to all intents strangers, and now she was following him, trusting him as though he were Gawain or Dagonet, or someone who actually gave a damn. And he didn't. He wouldn't. Realising that he had been walking too fast, he waited for Rowan to catch up and didn't look at her when he opened the door to the healing rooms. She looked a little uncertain at his change of mood, but thanked him when he showed her to where Tom was recuperating, but although he knew that she was safe enough, Lancelot did not leave when she closed the door behind her.

* * *

Lucan patted his pony's neck, more as something to do than an attempt at reassuring the animal. He and his friends had been riding for several hours, and as time went on it became increasingly clear that none of them had a clear idea of where they were going. Two's plan of going back to where the soldier had killed the female wolf proved to be hampered by the fact that he obviously wasn't too sure where that was, and since neither he or his brother seemed keen to either admit their mistake or defeat, the grand plan had dissolved into merely wandering in what, Lucan suspected, were circles. _Should have listened to Cass, _Lucan thought ruefully. He knew that he'd annoyed her, and since the light was fading and the kind couple who had taken him in were no doubt worried, the whole adventure seemed increasingly stupid and foolhardy. 

"This is stupid." Three pulled up his horse and glared at his elder brother. "This is the third time we've passed this tree - I recognise the carvings on it. Admit it, you don't know where you're going."

"You were the one who wanted to go in the first place," Two retorted. "Oh it's easy to find, there aren't many paths to the north," he mimicked sarcastically. "Except, you know, the couple of dozen you didn't recognize."

"You've been on as many hunting trips as I have!" Three was a year younger than his brother but half a head taller, and Lucan wondered uneasily if he'd have to break up a fight between the siblings. Certainly they had a reputation for brawling, but then so did their dad. Glancing back to the east, Lucan thought longingly of the cured ham that his "mother" had set aside for tonights meal. Forget this stupid hunt, all it had brought was the knowledge that no matter how many younger kids admired Two and Three, they couldn't find their arses with the help of a mirror and a map. He was just about to tell them so, when something caught his eye. Only a blur that could have been anything, but it was too big, too fast… His cry of warning was abruptly cut off when the sound of galloping hooves made all three ponies spook, and before any of the riders could regain control, Queen Guinevere galloped towards them. Her eyes were wild, her hair tangled, and she looked at the boys in front of her with undisguised horror.

"Go! Move!" She gasped breathlessly. Kicking her obviously exhausted mare forward, she reached for Two's bridle and attempted to turn his horse. "You have to.." A wolf slammed into her horse's side, sending it crashing to the ground, and Lucan watched aghast as the young woman fell from the saddle, her hand tangled in the animal's reins. The pony reared in panic, unwittingly dragging Guinevere clear from being crushed by her mount, but also throwing it's rider from the saddle before galloping away. Torn between confusion and horror, both Three and Lucan struggled to hold onto their ponies and draw their bows.

"What is…" Two rolled to his knees and drew his sword. He was fast, but the wolf that had taken down Guinevere's horse was faster. Dodging the sweep of his blade, it jumped over his shoulder, grabbing his head and snapping his spine as it did so. Dropping the suddenly limp body, it turned and snarled at the cry of pain and outrage torn from Three's throat. The red-haired boy loosed an arrow from his bow, striking the wolf on it's flank, but his horse was panicking, and he fumbled trying to find the next, the shaft falling to the floor as he fought for control. Lucan was a little faster, although he had had less training. He was struggling to prevent his horse from bolting, but abandoning his bow, he threw the knife that he always carried with him. He had aimed for the beast's head, but instead it struck its foreleg, the sickening snap of bone echoed by its howl of pain. Struggling to her feet, Guinevere vaulted onto Three's horse, reaching around the horrified boy to take the reins. Digging her heels into the pony's flanks, she smacked Lucan's mount on the rump and held on tight. One wolf was unmistakably down , but there would be others with it, and despite her desire to go back and fight, to do so would not only be suicidal but sign the death warrants of the two boys with her. Lucan urged his horse alongside hers, his face pale, a terror in his eyes that she had not seen since they had escaped Marius's dungeon, but it was not until they clattered through the entrance to the fort that she acknowledged him, and it was not until she let go of Three's waist and saw Gawain, Bors and Galahad run from the tavern that she dared think about the body that the three of them had left behind.

**A/N: I've put a "cast list" for all the oc characters in Fragile, Faithless and Llynya's Song on my profile page to make things easier. If I've missed anything out then let me know - some of my notes were uh, more tea stained than is easily decipherable :) . As always, thanks very much to my fantastic readers and reviewers.**


	14. Chapter 14

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me. **

Rowan shivered as the door to the tavern opened, letting a couple of soldiers out, and tucked her knees up to her chest. Although the tavern was more than half full, there was little noise; conversations skittered between tables with the brittle stillness of dried leaves, and although armed guards stood by the doorway, there was none of the usual banter they exchanged when people came and went. In the far corner sat Vanora, her eyes dry, her face white and set. Eleven sat upon her lap, pudgy fingers tangled in her bodice, his siblings tucked around them like wary fox cubs. Their grief was an almost solid thing, and like the soldiers that surrounded them, Rowan turned her head away from it. She had no words of comfort, no way to heal the hurt

Bors had gone with Lancelot, Gawain and Tristan to retrieve the body of his son. Rowan had seen the knight briefly before, and mentally noted his size and obvious strength, but nothing could have prepared her for the wild savagery of his grief. It had taken four men to hold him down when Three had stammered out what had happened, his roars of rage subsiding into sobs when Vanora abruptly walked over to him and slapped his face. His fury melted in the face of hers, and they had held each other for long moments without speaking. After that all became chaos: Arthur doubled the guards, mothers ran to haul their children back home, the knights left with set expressions and few words, and Rowan watched it all quietly. Uncharacteristically silent Lucy and Llynya sat together; their faces pale, their eyes reddened from tears. Taran, Llynya's son sat upon her lap watching the people around him with a happy fascination that was wholly at odds to the mood, and Lucy touched her belly every couple of minutes as though to reassure herself that the life that grew within her had not been stolen away. Neither of them had had much time to farewell their beloveds, Rowan had noted. A brief touch upon their shoulders from their men and they were gone. _No time for goodbyes, _she thought sadly_, and no way to be sure that they would return._

_Would Lancelot return? _The question had been gnawing at her ever since he had left, and Rowan wriggled, as though moving might dislodge the thought from her mind. He'd helped to hold down Bors when it seemed the older man might throw himself blindly into the woods that had claimed his son, he had accepted Arthur's orders when given them and he had left without a word to her. Gawain had been visibly distressed at their mission; his face anguished and eyes bright with tears, Tristan seemingly impassive were it not for the whiteness of his knuckles upon his bow. But Lancelot… Although he had re-sheathed his swords a little violently after checking them, he seemed emotionless - his dark eyes cold and clear. Of them all he had been the one to take the lead and ask questions of Lucan that seemed almost cruel in their request for detail. He had let the boy go to the arms of his adopted parents with a pat on the shoulder, but it was clear that the boy was already forgotten once he had gleaned whatever information he needed. _Distant_, Rowan decided, dropping her eyes so as not to be observed watching him, but not unmoved. Not when he muttered something to Three who nodded with weary gratitude, not when he met her eyes briefly before turning away.

Sliding off the bench which she had been sat upon, Rowan started collecting the dirty plates from the tables. The job needed doing and the activity was a welcome distraction from the misery around her and her own disturbing thoughts. Kyrie gave an attempt at a smile when she passed her, before resting her head back against Galahads shoulder, but for the most part no one paid any attention to her. Stacking the dishes into the bowl carefully, Rowan looked at the grease that stained her hands dark as blood, before moving swiftly to the back door and locking it tightly.

* * *

Branda stretched voluptuously against the damp grass upon which she lay and held her hand up to the sky. In the moonlight the blood on her fingers gleamed almost black, and she admired the way her skin shone alabaster in contrast. 

"D'you think we should have turned him?" She asked idly, moving her head to look at the man reclining next to her.

"Why?" Cynwulf quirked an eyebrow at his mate before reaching for her hand and licking the blood from it. "Looking for a replacement for me already? I thought that I alone held your heart."

"You do." Rolling over and straddling him, she placed her hands upon his bare chest and gave him a wicked grin. "I held his heart too though." Kissing him swiftly, she drew back before he could deepen it. "Tasted sweet. Sweet little boy." She turned her attention back to the sky. "Would have been fun though. Send him back, let him return to us all pretty and bloody and tasting of his family."

"That's my girl." Cynwulf smiled lazily at the woman atop him and pulled her down for a kiss by her bloodied dark hair. "Always finding cruelty in the kill, but you know we couldn't. Wulfstan gave us orders and…"

"Wulfstan is leader only by default," Branda spat irritably, rolling off him. "If Fridolf hadn't been stupid enough to get himself killed then half the fort would be running with us now. Wulfstan hasn't got the sword, it's only because he's the eldest anyone listens to him anyway. If I…"

"If you what, Branda?" a cold voice enquired from behind her. Startled, the young woman crouched defensively, eyes searching the dark. Slowly a huge man walked from the trees. His hair shone silver in the moonlight, as did the wolf pelts that formed a rough tunic over his chest and hips. His eyes however were gold, and he regarded the two younger werewolves with undisguised disdain. "If it were up to you then the whole pack would be cavorting merrily to their deaths. Fridolf underestimated his quarry, I don't. These aren't villagers we are hunting: if we want the king and his Samartians to join us we must be prudent. That means understanding them, using what we know to our advantage. If you two hadn't been so eager then they would still have been hunting rogue Saxons. Had you been anyone else you would have suffered badly for your lack of judgement. Syna's recovering, but she's not happy at the way that you took over her kill. She requested a fight when her leg is healed but I dissuaded her. I will not be so merciful the next time." Wulfstan ran a disapproving eye over Cynwulf and Branda. "Keep a tighter hold on your bitch, brother," he said, turning away. "The pair of you look positively feral."

Branda shook off Cynwulf's placating hand on her shoulder, her eyes blazing as she watched Wulfstan disappear into the shadows.

"Why do you let him speak to you like that? She demanded. "Why do you let him speak to _me _like that?"

"You know why." Cynwulf rubbed a brawny arm over his eyes and sighed. This was a conversation that they had had many times before, and he was growing weary of Branda's lust for power. "If you want to be Alpha then go and challenge him, but I wouldn't advise it - you saw what happened to Ailith."

She bit her lip in acknowledgement of his point, but the anger within her so recently sated by taking the village boy's life refused to die down. "He's not properly Alpha unless he has the sword. He's got to kill the bitch who killed Fridolf to get it - that's the law. The guard said that some girl called Rowan killed him. She must have it."

"The guard would have said anything by the time Wulfston had finished with him, " Cynwulf said tiredly. "What are you going to do? March in there and ask nicely for the sacred sword of our pack?"

Branda rolled her eyes in irritation, but before she had time to form a retort, an idea struck her. With a slow grin, she leant down and gave Cynwulf a lingering kiss.

"But love, I'm going to do _exactly_ that." Taking a deep breath, she tucked her hair behind her ears and gave him a doe-eyed look. A pretty, innocent young girl were the onlooker to ignore the blood that matted her hair and streaked her skin. "If Arthur is so keen on taking in strays, then why shouldn't he take in a poor child whose family have been tragically slaughtered by wolves?"

Cynwulf shook his head. "Wulfston'll kill you first."

"Not if I give him to Arthur," Branda replied softly, kissing his chest. "Lead the one to the other and take the prize." Kissing down his chest, her hand found his manhood and she giggled when he groaned in frustration. "See now love, this plan's sweet as baby flesh. I will be queen and you will be king, and those pathetic Saxons that Wulfston keeps under his thrall will be the first meal we share with our new pack."

* * *

Gawain kept his eyes upon the forest as he urged his horse towards Hadrians Wall. He was aware of Lancelot and Bors riding beside him, Tristan behind; guarding their backs with keen eyes that missed nothing, and for the first time he did not envy his friend that gift. 

What he had seen back in the glade that Guinevere and Three had directed them to was not much - not by the standards of battle. He had seen severed limbs, bodies hacked to pieces, and he had sometimes been the cause of such bloodshed. But that was battle. That was war. What was left of Two was unidentifiable save for the belt buckle lying amongst a pile of bones and torn flesh. What had been a noisy, annoying but loyal teenager a couple of hours ago was now not even recognisably human. Bors had dismounted, sat for a few moments beside his son's remains before pocketing the buckle and swinging back upon his horse. None of them had said anything - what was there to say?

Clattering back into the courtyard he watched as Bors swung off his horse and gave the buckle to Vanora who waited, her children a solemn rank of soldiers behind her. The big knight caught her when she wailed and fell to the floor, swinging her up into his arms and carrying her home, leaving his abandoned mount to be claimed by a tearful stable boy. Tristan spoke briefly to Arthur before grabbing Lucy, kissing her and pulling her away to their quarters.

And then there was Llynya. She too had watched the exchange between Bors and Vanora, and looked at him with an unspoken question in her dark eyes. Gawain nodded swiftly, flung his horse's reins to a waiting groom and took his son from Llynya's arms. The boy chuckled at the sight of his father's face, his hands grabbing for the long blond hair . Gawain kissed his forehead, breathed in the smell of him and did not protest when Llynya took his hand and led him to the little house that they shared. Together they laid Taran down in the slightly misshapen crib that Gawain had made when he had first learned of her pregnancy and watched as he fell asleep. Neither of them said anything when Llynya unbuckled his hauberk and freed him from his breeches, kissing his chest, his lips and pulling him down on top of her when he yanked her dress over her head with none of his usual gentleness. Their coupling was fierce and brutal, and when afterwards they collapsed exhausted, Llynya cried the tears her husband dare not shed upon his shoulder.

**A/N: Thanks very much to my readers and reviewers (special hugs to Kate and Beth who haven't been having a great time of it lately. Sorry that this chapter was a bit depressing and twisted lol). **


	15. Chapter 15

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Guinevere watched Arthur quietly. He had listened to what she had told him breathless and shaking when she had slid from Three's horse's back and raced to find him, he had helped to calm Bors and given what comfort he could to Vanora, released his knights to find Two's body and did what he could to protect the fort. Now there was just the two of them, and she watched as he rubbed a weary hand through his dark hair, his eyes shadowed as he gazed out of the window.

"I'm sorry," she said quietly. "I should have.." tears stung her eyes and she dropped her head. "He was just a boy, he shouldn't have…"

"Enough." Crossing the room, Arthur knelt in front of his wife, brushing her tangled hair from her forehead and wiping her tears away with calloused thumbs. "Lucan and Three would have likely died if you hadn't been there, and we would still be ignorant of what we face if you hadn't gone to Osric. Two's death isn't your fault."

"I know. I do but.." she winced when Arthur took her hand. The fingers had been bruised when she had grabbed Two's bridle, and while she was fairly sure that they weren't broken, they throbbed painfully.

Turning her small hand in his larger ones, Arthur kissed the damaged fingers gently, checking for damage and soothing the hurt with his gentle touch. Guinevere swallowed hard. It was not so long ago when he had realigned her broken fingers; holding her through the pain and binding himself to her in ways that she still didn't quite understand. He looked up, and when she met his eyes she knew that he too remembered.

"I love you," she said softly, reaching out to cup his cheek. "I ought to say that more often."

"And I ought not to let you out of my sight." Smiling when she wrinkled her nose in annoyance, he rose to his feet and picked her up. Holding her for a moment before walking to the bed, he settled her upon it, drawing a blanket over her body and stroking her hair. Exhausted, Guinevere closed her eyes and accepted the comfort, and it was only when her breathing deepened in the slow, regular rhythm of sleep that Arthur eased himself off the bed and left the room, closing the door softly behind him.

* * *

Rowan bit her lip and did her best to nod in the right places while the old man beside her prattled on, but her mind was elsewhere. The knights had returned and just as quickly vanished with their partners, and although the guards had obviously been instructed to keep an eye on her (an instruction that had disconcerted her to the point of scurrying into the kitchen to check that she didn't have her dress caught in her knickers), she felt nervous. Lancelot had nodded at her before disappearing outside, and she wondered if he was alright. What had happened to two was horrible from the little that she had heard, and given the obvious closeness of the knights, the teenager's death could not have failed to affect him. She was interrupted from her musings by the slightly irritated tone of Dickon, the old blacksmith who had obviously just asked her a question.

"That's wonderful," she said hastily. They'd been talking about this years harvest hadn't they? Either that or his grandchildren. Rearranging her face into some semblance of animated interest, she inwardly winced when Dickon looked at her as though she were mad.

"I said that he died of brain fever last autumn."

"Oh." Giving a weak smile, Rowan muttered something incomprehensible about finding the privy and escaped outside. The air was cool, the stars bright and cold in the sky above, and while torches blazed along the buildings and heavily armed soldiers paced back and forth upon the wall high above, at least out here there was room to breathe. _There would be a frost tonight, _she thought, exhaling and watching her breath curl and twist before disappearing. She and her sister had played at being dragons on such cold nights - imagining that it was smoke and not steam coming out of their noses. She smiled ruefully at the thought. It had turned out that there had been a lot of things that they had imagined, not least the idea that Hadrians wall would be safer than their own village.

It took a moment for Rowan to notice the figure slumped against the side of the tavern, and although she recognised Lancelot immediately, she hesitated before approaching him.

"Sir Lancelot?" He glanced at her briefly before returning his gaze to the flickering torches that burned at the other side of the courtyard.

"Go back inside, Rowan," he said quietly. "It's cold out here and you are safer inside."

She hesitated, unsure what to do. The words were a dismissal, but she couldn't just leave him sitting there . Suddenly resolute, she shook her head.

"No."

"No?" Lancelot's head dropped back onto the wall behind him, and he regarded her with weary amusement. "Why not?"

"Because you'll get cold," she said, embarrassment and irritation making her cheeks flush. "I didn't save you from that Saxon just so that you could die of…" She hunted through her memory but the correct terminology escaped her, and so she settled for a defiant, "die of being too cold."

"Die of being too cold." Lancelot blinked in disbelief, his eyes gleaming chestnut in the firelight. "Tell me Rowan, did Arthur's God send you to me so that you might confuse me so much that I'll end up praying on my knees next to our king."

"I don't know." Irritated, Rowan crossed her arms beneath her breasts. "Since apparently he doesn't mind slaughtering innocent people then I wouldn't be surprised."

He laughed then, a genuine chuckle that made him look like the young man he might have been had Rome not taken him when he was a child.

"Well, little Rowan, if you don't believe in Arthur's God then what do you believe in?"

"I believe…" She hesitated. It was a difficult question and one she wasn't quite sure of the answers to. "I believe that King Arthur cares about his people," she said finally. " I believe that when we die we are re-united with those that we have lost. And I believe that you aren't nearly so heartless as you'd like people to think you are."

Lancelot said nothing for a long moment, but his eyes narrowed when Rowan walked over to him. A muddle of unsure defiance, she knelt down next to him.

"You shouldn't stay here." Rowan shrugged off the cloak that Llynya had leant her. Lancelot watched her, making no attempt either take the proffered clothing or allow her to place it over his shoulders.

"You think me cold," he said quietly.

"I… There will be a frost tonight ," Rowan replied. Indeed the air was cooling further, the moon so bright that it outshone the firelight.

"That wasn't what I asked," Lancelot said, watching as the young woman before him. She refused to meet his eyes, the flesh on her forearms raising in goosebumps even as she determinedly held out the cloak that had covered her. _She wouldn't leave without him_, Lancelot realised, and reaching out, he gripped her shoulder and did not let go. Rowan froze, obviously unsure what to do, and he made the most of the opportunity. Wrapping one arm around her waist and another around her neck, he pulled her onto his lap. Her bewildered protest was lost when his mouth covered hers, and although she tensed for a brief moment, her lips opened at his gentle insistence, her small hands coming up to rest upon his shoulders. _Sweet, _he thought with the part of his brain that was not lost in sensation. Rowan was obviously inexperienced, but she was not afraid, and it took all his willpower to gently disentangle himself from her. She looked at him with utter disbelief, either at the liberty he had taken or her own daring, and he took advantage of her confusion.

Getting to his feet, he pulled her up with him, and grabbed her hand. She let him lead her to her room, and he left her there; wide-eyed, tousled and confused. Making sure that she had locked the door behind her, he walked swiftly to his own quarters. The weight of his clothing seemed oppressive and so he stripped himself of his hauberk and tunic, welcoming the chill of the air upon his bare skin. The feel of Rowan's slender body curled against him had left him hard and aching with frustration, but for once he did not go to the whores that did business behind the tavern. He found release swiftly with his own hand, and laying back bonelessly, he hunted uselessly for sleep. It did not come.

When the hills shivered beneath the first caress of the morning sun, he watched the light seep through his window , wondered if Rowan was awake, and fought the urge to go to her room. _Nothing good would come of it, _he told himself fiercely. It was the stupid promise to look after her that nagged at his thoughts. She was an innocent not a whore and for once in his life he wasn't going to put his own needs first. Yes, she was pretty, yes she was intelligent and brave, but he wasn't Gawain - he wasn't kind or gentle or affectionate. _And yet Tristan changed_, a little voice in his head whispered. _If he can then why can't you?_

Groaning, he buried his head in his pillow, but while sleep came swiftly it seemed only a moment before he was woken by a knock on his door.

**A/N: Just to make things clear, I am not anti Christianity or any other religion (unless it's crazy extremism) - I'm very happily agnostic. Thanks very much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter.**


	16. Chapter 16

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Rowan pushed the bolt to the lock home and stood gazing at the door for a long moment. _Was she locking herself in or Lancelot out, _she wondered. The bed was blessedly close, and she collapsed upon it, taking a deep breath and rolling onto her back. High above a little spider was weaving a web between the beams of the ceiling. She watched it for a while and envied its singleminded obsession, its ignorance of anything that came between it and its work. Her lips still tingled from Lancelot's kiss, her body thrumming restlessly from where she had pressed against him, and she pushed her head into the pillow and closed her eyes, hoping sleep would come if she willed it so, hoping that she hadn't made a mistake that she would not be able to repair. _Idiot, _her mind whispered. _You liked it when he kissed you, you would have him do it again. _But that path led to no good - she knew that much for sure. The dark-haired knight had a reputation for womanising that she had learnt of almost as soon as she had arrived. She might prove a diversion for him for a couple of days - weeks if she were lucky, but that was all. Grimly she made herself recall her mother's tales of the unwed mothers that had worked the streets where she had grown up. Forced to beg or offer their bodies in order to survive. That wouldn't happen to her - not after she had survived so much, she promised herself. Rolling onto her side, she tucked her head into her arms and tried unsuccessfully to forget the taste of his lips upon hers, the gentle sureness of his hand on her hip, the brush of his soft curls upon her cheek.

The knock on the door next to hers startled Rowan out of such frustrating memories, and swinging her legs over the side of the bed, she listened intently. Lancelot's voice was low as he greeted whoever it was that had disturbed him, the other man speaking swiftly and urgently. Slipping to the door, she pressed her ear against it and felt her heart jump in her chest when she heard the words spoken outside. A woman had been found. A woman who had escaped the attackers who had killed her companion and knew where they dwelt. As Lancelot and his companion's voices faded, Rowan snatched up her cloak and slipped from her room, padding behind the two men at a discreet distance. If there was news of who or whatever had attacked Alyce and Two then she would not sit frustrated until morning to wait to hear it.

* * *

Lancelot nodded wearily to the guard who had awoken him, and after knocking briefly on the door to Arthur's chambers, opened the door and stepped inside. The presence of his fellow knights was not much of a surprise, but the young girl with them was. 

Petite and red-haired, she sat huddled on the bench by the window, her arms tucked around her knees, her clothing ragged and dirty. Glancing up at him, something hot and almost lustful flashed in her eyes, and Lancelot blinked, a little unnerved. It was gone within less than a second, and he gave her a smile, inwardly cursing himself. He was letting his frustration with regard to Rowan twist his feelings towards this poor girl, he told himself. Glancing back at her, he smiled, and she gave a half decent attempt at returning it, her eyes as wide and innocent as a kittens'.

"Brother." Gawain walked over to him and nudged him towards the corner of the room, out of earshot of the girl. "Have you been informed of what's going on?"

"Not really." Lancelot shrugged wearily. "That girl escaped from someone, they might be the same ones that killed Two. Presumably we ride out and kill the bastards."

"Yes, well that's the thing." Gawain's blue eyes were grim. "It's more of a some_thing _than a some_one. '_least that's the way she tells it."

Lancelot felt his tiredness vanishing and glanced at the girl appraisingly. "You believe Guinevere's story then? You think the two attacks are connected."

"Bloody big coincidence if they aren't," the blond knight replied. "I'm not one for fairy stories, you know that, but Guinevere's got no reason to lie and neither has the girl as far as I can see. We've already fought things that are enough to give most people nightmares - werewolves aren't too much of a stretch of the imagination."

"No, I suppose not." Rubbing a hand through his dark curls, Lancelot sighed heavily. "Tell me again, Gawain, why did we stay in this accursed country?"

"The women are pretty and the ale is good," his friend replied promptly. "And speaking of women, how's Rowan? Llynya asked after her."

"Rowan is fine." Lancelot turned at the sound of the door opening and was relieved when Arthur and Guinevere entered the room; he was in no mood to discuss what had happened last night, well meant as Gawain's questions were.

All conversation in the room abruptly stopped when the King held up his had for silence.

"Knights ." Arthur swept his eyes over the men that had come to mean so much to him, his gaze lingering on Bors who stood red-eyed but fierce looking, before moving to the girl who had occasioned the meeting. "Once again we face a threat to the peace that we have fought so hard for. Once again I must ask you to fight. You have heard what the Saxon, Osric, had to say about the sword belonging to the man several nights ago. You have borne witness to the savagery of what our enemies are capable of, and mourned their victims." His eyes met Bors's, the older man flinching at his commander's words, but his gaze resolute. "Branda," Arthur nodded to the young woman, " knows what we face, she has information that can help us, information that will lead us to defeat this evil." Gesturing for the red-haired girl to rise, he gave her a reassuring smile. "I will let her tell you her story - will you do that for us Branda?"

The girl nodded, getting to her feet with a litheness that made her look poised despite her tattered clothes and grubby face. Her voice was tentative at first, but swiftly grew in strength as she told how she and her husband had been travelling to the fort in order to trade their embroidery and jewellery, how they had been set upon by what looked like wolves, and how she had miraculously escaped by climbing a tree and hiding until nightfall. With tears in her eyes, she told how, hidden and silent, she had watched the "wolves" feast upon her husband's body and turn into men when they had eaten their fill, how blank-eyed Saxon men had bowed before them before departing. Guinevere moved to her side when she started sobbing, placing a comforting hand upon her shoulder, but Branda recovered herself enough to answer Arthur's questions.

"They deferred to a… man called Wulfstan," she whispered. "A big man with silver hair. He said that they would rest in the caves tonight."

"Only one lot of caves near enough," Tristan said, his low voice breaking the silence that followed Branda's words. "Got to be Niton Gorge."

Arthur nodded. "We know where they are, we know how many there are and they aren't armed."

"They've got fucking big teeth," Galahad protested, "that's not exactly what I'd call unarmed."

"Then stay here," Bors snarled. "I'm going, I'm fighting. I'm going to make the bastards pay."

Sensing that Bors was quite willing to take out his frustration on the youngest knight, Arthur moved swiftly over to him and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"And pay they will," he promised. "But we will do this right or not at all." Looking at his men, Arthur's green eyes hardened. "We ride at first light. We may not get an opportunity like this again. Tristan, you will ride ahead, but do not engage in combat unless you have absolutely no choice." The scout's golden eyes flashed in irritation, but he nodded in acknowledgement. "We deal with this quickly and without mercy. Use bows unless you can help it, and do not let them get close enough to bite."

"Wasn't planning to," Lancelot murmured under his breath, earning himself an irritated glance from his commander.

"Go, ready yourselves. The stable hands are preparing the horses; we meet in the courtyard in two hours." The knights nodded and left; Gawain and Galahad by unspoken agreement accompanying Bors, Tristan sliding away like a shadow. Guinevere ushered a still teary-eyed Branda out of the room, and then only Lancelot and Arthur were left.

"You believe the girl?" Lancelot asked the man who had been in turn his master and friend. "You believe that we are hunting werewolves?"

Arthur gave a short laugh and sat down heavily on the bench by the window. "What else can I believe?" he replied. "Bodies ripped to pieces, the sword…. Guinevere trusts Osric and I trust her. You've seen enough to know the difference between killing for pleasure and killing for gain, Lancelot - these attacks are random, they make no sense. We've seen this before at Hythe."

"And it ended badly," Lancelot retorted.

"Badly?" the older man looked at his friend incredulously. Lancelot leant against the wall, but the seemingly relaxed position of his body did nothing to hide the fact that his dark eyes were flashing dangerously and the muscles in his jaw were clenched tightly. "We rid the village of a threat that had killed dozens of innocents - I know that you and Tristan were hurt, and it was a tragedy that the girl was killed, but…."

"Charlotte." Lancelot interrupted. "Her name was Charlotte."

"Charlotte." Arthur repeated the name slowly. "I'm sorry, I didn't realise that the two of you were that close."

"We weren't," Lancelot said irritably. "I didn't bed her if that's what you mean." From the look on his commander's face that had obviously been his first thought, and Lancelot found his rage suddenly subsiding. _Was it really so difficult to believe that he could care for a woman without bedding her first? "_ I just wonder how wise it is to charge into battle without truly knowing what it is we are facing. Things aren't always what they seem - we learnt that too at Hythe."

"You don't trust Branda?" Arthur asked.

"It's not that. The girl is…" a brief feeling of unease stirred within him, but he quelled it swiftly. "She's lucky to be alive."

Arthur sighed. The sky was inky black outside the window, any stars swallowed by the clouds that threatened rain at any moment. _It's always darkest before dawn, _he thought. Guinevere had taught him the phrase, and with a pang he realised that it would be difficult to persuade his wife not to ride with them later. "Do you remember what happened before?" he said quietly. "When Brigid and her followers terrorised our people? The fear and the confusion? I won't let that happen again. We have information on where they are and their numbers, and we, I , have to use it. The longer they are out there the more damage they will do, the more will die. I have to make a choice, Lancelot."

The younger knight nodded. "I know," he said quietly, "And I am with you." With a tired smile, he nodded goodbye to Arthur before opening the door and closing it behind him.

* * *

Rowan held her breath, sucked in her stomach muscles, and tried to make herself as thin and flat as she could against the wall. The alcove that she had hidden in was blessedly cloaked in shadow, but unfortunately it was fairly shallow, and so she had stood rigid and as still as possible as the knights had left the room opposite. Gawain, Galahad and Bors had obviously been oblivious to her presence, but Tristan had glanced her way and his mouth had twitched before he went on his way. Muscles aching from cramp and feeling slightly ridiculous, Rowan worried her bottom lip with her teeth. Lancelot hadn't left with the others, and to leave her hiding place now put her in the potential position of being caught out if he suddenly left for his rooms. _So much for subterfuge_, she thought ruefully. The door that the meeting had been held behind had proved too thick to yield anything except a vague muttering, and the noisy dice game that was being held in a room down at the end of the corridor had muffled things even further. 

Shifting her legs and wincing as one of her knees popped painfully, Rowan had almost decided to make a dash back to her room when the door to Arthur's rooms opened once again. Guinevere she instantly recognised, but the young woman following her was unfamiliar. They turned the opposite direction to where she was hidden , much to Rowan's relief, but she could not help but lean out a little and watch them as they walked down the corridor. The young queen was talking about something to do with rooms, but Rowan stopped listening after a moment. The girl with her had turned, her eyes inhumanly bright in the faint light of the torches. For a second their eyes met and the girl smiled slowly, before turning back to Guinevere and following her meekly towards the servants quarters

**A/N: Thanks very much for the reviews kind reviewers - sorry for not replying, I figured you'd prefer a quick update instead lol. Speaking of reviews, plesae don't hesitate to tell me where I'm going wrong. Feedback is kindness and I promise not to take offence whatever you say to me.**


	17. Chapter 17

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Rowan forgot all her worries about being stealthy and fled as soon as Guinevere and her companion had turned the corner. Bounding up the stairs to her chambers, she shot past a startled guard and slammed the door to the room shut behind her. Her heart slammed against her ribs as she fumbled for the bolt, pushing it closed and sliding to the floor. _What had she seen? _she wondered. It had been a brief moment, not much more than a flicker of a glance, but there was something very wrong with that girl - something _unnatural. _Biting her lip, she willed herself to calm down. She was on edge - everyone was; the girl was obviously trusted by the queen, and since they had both emerged from Arthur's chambers, presumably the king and knights as well. What could she do? March up to Arthur and tell him that the girl had looked at her strangely while she was trying to spy on his confidential meeting? She could only imagine how well _that _would go down. Hearing the scuff of footsteps outside and the door next to hers closing, she briefly considered confiding in Lancelot before discarding the idea. Seeing him again was going to be awkward enough without having to make a case for something that even she acknowledged sounded a bit mad. Rowan got to her feet and walked wearily over to the bed, curling up on it and shoving her head under the pillow. She would try and find out more about the woman tomorrow, and if she still felt the same then confide in Llynya, Kyrie or Lucy - they would know the best way to raise her concerns with the knights, she decided. Resolutely she closed her eyes and wished for sleep, but when it came it was restless; filled with dark shadows and cold eyes filled with hunger.

* * *

"Don't get killed." Lucy's voice was edged with panic as she spoke to Tristan. "And don't get hurt." She pushed him away crossly when he made to silence her with a kiss. "I mean it Tristan, if anything happens to you then you're sleeping on your own from now on."

"Have you finished?" The scout arched a brow gracefully and placed a comforting hand on her cheek. "I'll always come back for you Lucy."

She wrinkled her nose, trying not to cry. Taking his hand, she placed it upon the swell of her belly. "Well there's two of us to come back for now, so just make doubly sure that you're careful."

Arthur shouted a command from behind them, and Tristan glanced back, disentangling himself from the blonde girl and kissing her quickly. With no further words he left her and took his horse from the stable boy who had readied it for him before joining his fellow knights.

"It'll be alright, Lucy," a kind voice said from beside her, and Lucy did not need to turn to know that Llynya had joined her. "They know what they're doing."

"Following Arthur's orders," Lucy replied bitterly. "Same as always. If he told them to jump of a bloody cliff they probably would."

"Bors lost a child," Llynya said quietly. "Can you imagine him not seeking vengeance? Would you let the monsters live and claim more lives?"

"No." Lucy shook her head a little ashamed of her selfishness. "I'm sorry Llynya - I'm just scared that's all. It's just one thing after another at the moment; so much for peace. Don't you ever wish that you'd married a carpenter or a thatcher or something?"

The older girl smiled and gave her friend a comforting one-armed hug. "I fell in love with Gawain, and while he has many talents carpentry isn't one of them - you've seen the crib that he made for Taran."

"It's quite… unusual." Lucy gave a half smile, feeling a little better at Llynya's quiet reassurance.

The dark haired girl snorted. "It had five legs and was so lopsided that I had to stuff it with blankets to stop Taran rolling out of it. Like it or not Luce, we chose our men not wisely but well, and since they're men they weren't likely to have much sense whatever profession they were in."

"I'm going to tell Gawain that you said that," Lucy said with a smile. Waving with as much enthusiasm as she could, she watched Arthur and his men depart. Preoccupied as she was, it took a moment before she noticed Kyrie walking towards them. The dainty girl looked paler than usual, and Lucy gave her an understanding smile - Galahad was riding out with the others and Kyrie was never very good at hiding her worry for the young knight. With some puzzlement she turned her attention to the girl who accompanied her friend. She was perhaps twenty years old, slender and obviously nervous, her unusual brown eyes peering through a curtain of dark auburn hair when she dropped her head warily.

"Picking up strays? I thought that was Llynya's job," Lucy said without malice as the pair walked up to her and Llynya.

"This is Branda," Kyrie said, patting her companion on the shoulder. "She came in last night - she's the one who escaped the… " She stumbled a little on the next word, "werewolves. She lost her husband to them."

"I'm so sorry for your loss." Llynya walked swiftly over to the young woman and gave her a kind smile. "You must have been very brave."

"Not really." Branda shook her head in denial, keeping her eyes fixed upon the ground. "I was just lucky, that's all. I hope the king and his men kill the lot of them."

"Tristan's hunting them, so that's pretty much guaranteed," Lucy said wryly. "If you're the one that told the King where they are then the whole fort is indebted to you. Are you hungry? There's food left in the kitchen."

"I'll eat later," Branda replied politely, her eyes flashing briefly. "My husband and I shared a large meal last night." Looking up, she gave a hesitant smile and pretended to blink back tears. "I've never been to Hadrian's wall before. If it's not too much trouble could one of you tell me a little about it? I'm afraid that I'll get quite lost wandering around."

"It would be no trouble at all," Llynya smiled. "In fact all of us could do with something to keep us busy." Suddenly remembering that the evening meal was yet to be prepared, she glanced at Lucy and amended her suggestion. "I'd better start the food though."

Lucy shrugged. "I don't mind showing you around."

With an apologetic smile, Kyrie explained that she had to pick up several kitchen knives that were being sharpened, but promised to meet them later. Scurrying away, she paused to wave briefly at Rowan who was crossing the courtyard before heading to the smithy.

Rowan walked slowly, and tried to tell herself that it was because she was afraid of tripping upon the uneven cobblestones and not the woman who seemed to be talking quite innocently to Llynya and Lucy. She hadn't spoken to Lancelot and had felt too awkward to go down to say goodbye - it would have seemed rather presumptuous standing next to the wives and lovers of the knights and scouts that were leaving, and so she had gone to see Tom instead. He had been pleased to see her, and in turn she was pleased to note the improvement in his colour and the returning brightness to his eyes. Obviously he was a little frustrated to be bedridden, but she promised to take Lark, his dog out for a walk, although she jested, he himself would probably enjoy it more. Aside from going out to relieve herself or snatch the occasional treat from one of the soldiers (despite the fact that she was regularly fed by a doting Llynya), Lark had not left her master's side and Tom was worried that such confinement wasn't good for his faithful companion. Now Lark trotted beside her, and Rowan took comfort in the lurcher's eager steps and bright eyes as she sniffed the air and took in her surroundings.

"Hello." Giving a decent attempt at a smile, Rowan greeted the two women whom she had come to think of as friends. "I'm sorry that I wasn't here to see off the knights. I thought that I should visit Tom first."

Both Lucy and Llynya smiled, the dark haired girl bending down to rub Lark's ears.

"Doing better isn't he?" Llynya said with a grin. "Gawain says Tom's got the luck of the Gods on his side."

Lucy gave a huff of amusement. "If getting kicked out of Rome, attacked by tigers and then Saxons or maybe werewolves is luck then I'd hate to see what'd happen if he fell _out_ of favour with them." Nodding to Branda, she introduced the two girls. "Branda meet Rowan, Rowan meet Lucy. Both of you escaped whatever the hell it is out there so don't let me or Llynya get in the way if you want to talk amongst yourselves."

Rowan gave her best attempt at a smile and looked at the red-haired girl beside her. Branda looked back with big green eyes that held nothing but a trace of shyness, and Rowan almost laughed at her stupidity. What had she been so afraid of? She had been tired and overwrought when she had seen the girl last night, her nerves on edge. _That'll teach you to sneak around places you aren't supposed to be, _she told herself firmly. Relaxing, she smiled genuinely.

"It's nice to meet you."

Branda smiled back, all shyness seemingly lost for a moment. "I'm sorry for your loss." Her eyes were intent as they studied the girl beside her.

"And I for yours," Rowan replied, a little uneasy at such close scrutiny. "I'm sorry to run off, but I'm supposed to see Lynette about a job - I'm sure that we'll see each other again soon."

"I don't doubt it," Branda replied.

"'bye Lucy, Llynya, see you later," Rowan patted her thigh to order the dog at her feet to rise. "Come on Lark, your master will wonder if I've stolen you if we stay any longer."

The dog did not respond to her command. Instead, hackles raised, Lark bared her teeth at Branda, backing slowly away.

"Lark come on." Puzzled, Llynya hooked her fingers around the Lurcher's collar and managed to pull her away. "I'm sorry," she apologized. "She's not usually like this."

"It's not her fault," Branda said quickly. "I haven't changed my clothes since last night - I haven't had the chance. I probably smell of blood and…" Giving a sob, she covered her face with her hands. "I'm so sorry."

"There's nothing to be sorry for," Lucy said firmly, taking her arm and leading her towards the tavern. "Sit down and have something to drink. It won't take long to find you some new clothes and get you cleaned up."

Llynya shrugged and relinquished Lark to Rowan.

"Do you mind taking her back to Tom?" she asked. "Lark's a hunting dog and the goddess alone knows what that poor girl's clothing smells like. Given that she hasn't been out of Tom's room for the past few days then we're lucky she didn't actually attack Branda."

Rowan nodded mutely, taking hold of the dog's collar, patting its head when it sat down beside her and watching Llynya hurry away. A sick uneasiness gripped her stomach and it was with difficulty that she managed to make her legs move well enough to walk. If there was one thing that her mother had taught her, it was to trust the instincts of animals. When the cows sat down in the fields it was a sure sign of rain. When the swifts and swallows stayed beyond the harvest it was a promise that the autumn would be warm. Above all she remembered Sally, the collie that had been elderly when she herself was young, and had only ever attempted to bite once: a particularly nasty village boy who had reached out to pat her quite innocently.

"What was that all about?" she asked Lark. The dog seemed eager to get away, her muscles stiff beneath her shaggy coat. "What did you see?"

Unsurprisingly the dog remained mute, but the relief that Rowan had felt earlier had vanished. Branda had been polite, she hadn't said or done anything wrong, but she couldn't trust her; that was as irrevocable as if it had been tattooed upon her forehead.

"Come on girl," she said softly to Lark. "I think I need to talk to your master."

* * *

Lancelot wiped his damp hair from his eyes and looked around wearily. Although the sun still shone distantly at the head of the cave, inside it was lit only with torches, and frankly he wished that someone would extinguish them. Splattered with blood that looked almost black in the flickering light, the rocky walls closed over the scene as though trying to take a better look at the carnage beneath, the bodies being dragged outside grotesque.

He had fought many times before of course - in his younger days he had kept a tally stick to keep count, marking each battle he had survived with one of his swords (and it always had to be his swords, not a knife. The swords survived with him, were part of him, and Arthur himself had promised long ago that they would be buried with him), before the stick was whittled away to nothing and he gave up counting. This, however, had been a different battle for many reasons. For one it was borne of a desire to avenge Two, a boy whom he had known and been fond of, for another it had been the first time he, or any of the others had fought in such an enclosed space. It hadn't been hard to find the pack - Branda's instructions had been clear and their quarry had been sleeping just as she had said they would be. That they had found the right people had been confirmed by Tristan tossing Arthur a still bloodied human skull when he and Eadgyth had returned from their scouting trip. Still, he thought, evil or not, they screamed as though they were human, at least at first, although when some of them had turned, leaping from the darkness with snapping jaws and wild eyes, he was past caring what he was fighting, be it wolf or man. Grabbing the hair of a man that lay at his feet, he dragged the corpse outside. The men and women they knew to be wolves had been beheaded, as had those they weren't so sure of. This man he mused, as he hoisted it onto the pile of bodies, was obviously a Saxon, one of those that had been working with the pack be it with free will or not. Still, it couldn't hurt to make sure. Unsheathing one of his blades, he severed the head swiftly and kicked it back towards the pile.

"Lancelot." Tristan had moved beside him with his usual silent grace, and Lancelot wondered at the scout's emotionless expression. In a couple of hours he would be reunited with sweet Lucy; what would he tell her of what they had done today? Would he wash the blood from his skin before he touched hers? Some of the men and women that they had killed hadn't been much older than his bride to be - would he tell her that?"

" We did what we had to do," The scout said as though he could read his thoughts. "Now we leave. Eadgyth and Rahlah will stay to burn the bodies."

Lancelot nodded and turned towards his horse. Passing Bors, he clasped him on his shoulder in a gesture of unspoken support and sympathy. The things that had killed his son were dead, but who knew by whose hand? The bodies would burn, but knowing what he did of the big knight the knowledge that he himself could not truly know that he had avenged his son would weigh upon his mind. Lancelot's horse looked around and whickered in greeting when he untied it, and giving its soft muzzle a gentle rub, he led it back to the others and thought of Rowan. She had been soft and sweet last night, her eyes betraying her every emotion. _Should he have kissed her? _he wondered wearily as he swung up into the saddle. _What would she think if she knew what he was capable of? At least now she was safe, _he told himself. _At least now things could return to whatever passed for normal. _At Arthur's command he and his companions urged their horses forward, their skin sticky with blood, the air acrid with the smell of burning flesh.

**A/N: Thanks very much for the input kind reviewers - I really appreciate the feedback : ) Best wishes and happy writing/reading, H. **


	18. Chapter 18

**Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise belongs to me. There is a list of characters on my profile page if you get confused regarding character names.**

**Warning for slightly kinky werewolf smut (and there's something I don't think that I've ever written before!)**

Rowan knocked on Tom's door tentatively before opening it. Lark immediately bounded over to the man who rested in the large bed at the end of the room, but Rowan approached more slowly, her mind still trying to work out what she wanted to say.

"What is it lass?" Tom gave a huff of amusement as his keen eyes took in the girl's preoccupied expression. "Spit it out."

Giving the old hunter an incredulous look, Rowan shook her head in annoyance. "You see too much, Tom. It's really quite disconcerting."

"Kept me alive so far," he replied. "If not entirely whole." Shifting his broken leg with a wince, he beckoned for her to sit down on the side of the bed. Rowan sat down carefully, making sure not to jostle the injured man and dropped her gaze to her lap, fidgetting with the material of her skirt. Aware of Tom's impatient eyes upon her, she finally thought _sod it, _and blurted out her question.

"Do you believe in werewolves?"

"Werewolves?" Tom did not look particularly surprised by her words. "I take it you've heard the gossip then. What have you heard?"

"That it was werewolves that killed Two and Brennus. That Arthur's men have gone hunting them, and that the Saxons that attacked us and Lancelot are connected in some way."

"You're well informed, I'll give you that," Brennus said with a weary smile. "Arthur and his men are out hunting _something, _but what exactly remains to be seen. That girl who came in yesterday gave them information on where people who killed her companion are hiding, but beyond that I have nothing to tell you that you don't already know beyond rumours and heresay."

"Branda," Rowan said quietly, returning her gaze to her lap. "The girl's name is Branda. Have you met her?"

"Met her? Why should I have?" Brennus gestured towards his leg. "I'm not exactly up to skipping around the castle in order to interrogate damsels in distress incase you hadn't noticed."

"Sorry." Lark wandered over and placed her head on Rowan's knee, and closed her eyes when the girl rubbed her behind the ears. "Lark didn't like her," she said quietly.

"Lark can be fickle sometimes, like all women. Is that what's bothering you?"

"It's not just that. There's something about her that just seems… _wrong. _Like she knows something that everyone else doesn't, and her eyes." She paused and bit her lip, hunting for a way to make her concerns sound less silly than they did in her head. "Sometimes her eyes don't look quite human."

Tom rested his head back against the headboard and studied the girl sat on his bed. Rowan did not seem to be the type of girl to make up stories, or go into hysterics at danger real or perceived, but she was obviously spooked about this Branda girl.

"Has anyone else noticed anything strange about her?" he asked quietly.

Rowan shook her head. "No. As far as anyone else is concerned she's just a girl, and one to be pitied at that. I know that it sounds paranoid, but it's me that she keeps looking at, but I don't know why that should be."

"Keep an eye on her if you can Rowan, that's the best advice I can give you," Tom said with a sigh. "Don't go burning bridges before you know that you have cause to do so. These past few days have put everyone on edge and it's quite possible that you are transferring those fears onto Branda, but if you are right and she is not all that she seems, then you will need proof before you act. Take Lark if it'll make you feel safer. She might not be the best fighter, but she'll get you out of trouble if this Branda person decides to cause it."

"Thanks." Rowan gave Tom a smile and patted her thigh so that the lurcher padded over to her. "And thanks for not laughing at me."

Tom gave an amused grin. "I'm an old man Rowan, and I've seen plenty of strange things in my time. Keep your wits about you and go to Arthur or the knights if you are convinced that Branda is a threat - they'll listen to you."

With a nod and a smile Rowan headed to the door, Lark trotting at her heels.

"I for got to tell you," the old hunter called from behind her. "Lynette was looking for you earlier."

"Lynette?" Suddenly remembering that she was supposed to be meeting the housekeeper with regard to a possible sewing job, she quickly unlocked the door and scurried down the steps, all thoughts of Branda and werewolves forgotten for the moment.

* * *

Branda flopped down on her bed and gave a long sigh. Finally some time alone! She had endured Llynya's hospitality, the trip to the baths, which had admittedly been rather nice, and the concerned questions - _was she tired? was she hungry_? Until she had felt like screaming. No, she wasn't tired, and yes she was hungry, but not for anything that could be cooked up in the tavern unless it was one of the patrons. And then there was the tour of the fort that Lucy had taken her on. Illuminating and necessary as the information she had gained had been, it had been accompanied by the blonde girl's endless prattling, and had she not shown a heroic amount of self control, the knights would be riding back to yet another corpse upon their doorstep. _She'd be first when the time came, _Branda promised herself. _Not for turning but for eating._ Idly she wondered if pregnant women tasted different to the others.

Getting up, she prowled around the room restlessly. It wasn't very big, although larger than most of the others that were in the servants quarters. The bed was freshly made although she had no intention of sleeping there no matter what she had said to Lucy and Guinevere. Give it time and she would have the run of the fort, she mused, and the choice of any bed she wanted. Perhaps Lancelot's she thought with a smile. The dark haired knight was handsome and there was something in his eyes that was lacking in most of the excuses for men in this place - definitely an alpha in the making, although he would have to challenge Cynwulf for that title.

Creeping to the doorway, she slid out and made her way down the steps towards the privy, but instead of entering it as she would have done if she had met anyone in the corridor, she pushed open the door used by the unfortunate servants whose job it was to make sure the cess pit did not overflow. The privy beside her smelt disgusting, but it was the least guarded section of the fort, and after a brief scan of her surroundings, Branda hurried down the hill, changing into lupine form as soon as the forest gave her enough cover to do so. She had a couple of hours by her reckoning before she had to be back. Lucy and Llynya thought that she had gone to bed exhausted and had promised to let her "grieve" in peace for a while. Arthur might want to speak to her when he returned, but it would take a while for he and the knights to negotiate the forest by twilight, even assuming that they were not carrying casualties. Revelling in the power of her sleek muscles and the intoxicating smells of the forest as she bounded through it, the rocky outcrop on the hill came into view almost too soon. Slowing her speed to a gentle lope, she approached the wolf that sat waiting for her, golden eyes bright in the half light. After nuzzling one another, they both changed form and Branda accepted the bearskin that Cynwulf held out to her. The night was cool, and her bare flesh goose pimpled in the chill air.

"How goes it love?" She whispered to the big man beside her. His light brown hair shone almost as golden as his eyes in the setting sun, and snuggling up to him she kissed him upon a well muscled shoulder. "What of our pack?"

Cynwulf smiled, rolling on top of her and pinning her down.

"We are the pack," he said with quiet triumph. "Idiots didn't know what had hit them. As of now, you and I are free to do as we choose."

Branda laughed, pulling him down and kissing him fiercely.

"And the sword?" Cynwulf asked breathlessly, "Do you have it?"

"Not yet." Branda narrowed her eyes. "I saw it in the king's chambers. It wasn't the right time to take it then, but don't worry it'll be ours soon."

"The bitch that took it? Does she live?"

Branda looked up at her mate thoughtfully. "Not a threat - she's weak, but unlike the other idiots at the fort I don't think she trusts me. I'll take her down soon enough, don't worry, but until I've turned enough soldiers to make sure that our plan goes smoothly, I'll leave her be. She's too close to the knights' whores not to cause trouble if I kill her now."

"And the knights?" Cynwulf asked, "Do you still intend to turn them?"

"Of course." Branda kissed his collarbone and smiled dreamily. "A new pack calls for new blood and Sarmatian ought to do it. They're strong, battle bred and used to following orders. Wulfstan might have been content to turn stable boys and serving girls, but our pack will have only the best."

"And you deserve the best my love," Cynwulf whispered, his hand sliding over the flat plane of her belly and burrowing between her thighs.

"Tell me," Branda gasped. "Tell me how Wulfstan died."

Lowering his head, Cynwulf whispered to her of the blood and the gore until she shuddered against him. Later, although not as long as either of them would have liked, Branda left her mate and returned to the fort. Hurriedly dressing in the clothes that she had abandoned at the edge of the forest, she managed to slip back into her room and waited restlessly for the clatter of hooves upon cobblestones that would signal the return of the king and his knights. When it came, she rubbed her eyes fiercely, making them sting, and so at the expected knock on her door, the soldier who had come to fetch her looked at her with pity. _The poor girl had obviously been crying her eyes out by the looks of her swollen eyes and flushed cheeks, _he thought to himself. Knocking on Arthur's door and giving Branda a polite nod, he did not see the look of triumph in her eyes, nor the way she bit her lip almost as though she were hungry.

**A/N: Many thanks to everyone who read/reviewed the last chapter. **


	19. Chapter 19

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me. Character list on is my profile page if you get stuck :)**

At the sound of hoof beats in the courtyard, Rowan put down the dress that she had been mending and hurried over to the window. Counting the men that were dismounting and handing their horses to the care of the stable boys, she felt a rush of relief when she realised that the number tallied with that of those who had left, and from the looks of things no-one was badly hurt. Lancelot's curly head was easy to identify and she watched him carefully as he walked over to the king. _He looked tired_, she thought to herself. There was something that looked suspiciously like blood splattered on his hauberk, and the pang of worry that jabbed through her was as unnerving as it was unexpected.

Rowan watched as the knights departed towards Arthur's quarters before making herself sit back down and finish her work. No-one would know anything until Arthur made an announcement or the knights had a chance to talk to their women, and unless she was going to try eves dropping again _(Not _a good idea, she told herself firmly), then she would have to wait just like everyone else to find out what had happened. Turning her attention back to the garment she was holding, she re-threaded her needle and mended the rip in the hem with tiny stitches. _It was good to be useful_, Rowan thought to herself. She had always been good at sewing and took pride in her work. When she and Alyce had travelled to Hadrian's wall they had both been hopeful of finding positions as seamstresses, and while her wish might have come true in the most horrible way, Rowan was glad that she was working for her keep somewhat. Finishing the dress and picking up a torn cloak, she worked until the light started to fade, tying off the final stitch before she would have to start lighting candles in order to see what she was doing. Taking the garments down to Lynette, she smiled when the housekeeper praised her skill and gave her a few coins with the promise of more work tomorrow, before leaving for the tavern.

Lark, who had spent the day snoring in a patch of sunshine, getting up occasionally to bark at the stable dogs out of the window, trotted ahead eagerly. She knew the way to the tavern, and she knew that food was most likely in the offering when they got there. Rowan watched the dog with amusement; Lark obviously hadn't spent the night worrying about Branda or anything else for that matter. _Must be nice to be a dog,_ she mused. The thought had barely crossed her mind when Lark stopped abruptly, her hackles rising, a low growl coming from her throat.

Branda slipped off the hay bale she had been sitting on and approached Rowan with a smile.

"Rowan! It is Rowan isn't it? "

"It is." Rowan nodded and did her best to return the smile. Branda was clean and dressed in worn but fresh clothes, her hair falling silkily around her pretty face. There was nothing disturbing about the look in her eyes, and Rowan tried to mask her confusion. Lark was still growling, and she grabbed the lurcher's collar.

"I don't think the dog likes me very much." Brando shrugged. "I don't know what it is about animals and me, we never seem to get on very well."

"So I see." Rowan kept her voice neutral, but concentrating on calming Lark, she did not see the look of anger on the other girl's face, nor the way she narrowed her eyes fiercely at the dog. Lark whimpered and immediately stopped growling, and stepping forwards, Branda stroked the dog's head.

"There's a good dog," Branda said quietly, "you just need to know who's master don't you?" Looking up at Rowan, she smiled. "I've just been in a meeting with our esteemed king and his knights. The werewolves are dead. Their bodies are burning in the forest as we speak."

Lark flinched at the caress, and confused and not a little disquieted, Rowan made to pull the dog away. Before she could do so however, the sound of footsteps behind them caused both women to turn to see Lancelot approaching. He looked tired and dirty, although not visibly injured, and Rowan gave him a smile despite her nervousness.

"Ladies," he nodded to the two young women politely. "I trust that you are both well."

Rowan inclined her head, her thoughts a little muddled when his dark eyes met hers, but Branda gave the knight a beaming smile and stepped forward, clasping her hands around his forearm and looking up at him shyly.

"You killed the monsters that killed my husband," she said, her voice trembling with emotion. "I cannot ever thank you enough."

Lancelot looked at the young woman and disentangled himself as politely as he could.

"My brothers and the scouts that ride with us had as much to do with the hunt as I did, Branda," he said carefully. "We all played our part."

"Indeed." Pretending not to pay any attention to Lancelot's words, Branda smiled. "Nonetheless I am indebted to you. If there is anything that I can do for you then all you need do is ask." The feral look in her eyes belied the sweetness of her smile, and suddenly more than a little uncomfortable, Lancelot fought the urge to take a step backwards.

"You are not indebted to me Branda," he replied. "I follow Arthur's orders. We were lucky that the information you gave us was so clear. The danger is gone now and we no longer need fear attack. From the creatures anyway," he amended.

"Indeed. Please excuse me." Branda smiled and nodded at Rowan before walking away, her dark red hair gleaming in the fading light, her movements fluid as she slipped out of sight.

Lancelot turned his attention to Rowan. The girl was still crouched beside Lark, her expression unreadable.

"Rowan? Are you alright?"

"I'm fine. Thank you." Attempting a smile, Rowan stood up straight and wiped her hands self-consciously on her skirt. The undertones of Branda's conversation with Lancelot had been about as subtle as a rock to the head and she was horrified to find her chest tightening with anger. _She wasn't jealous. She couldn't be jealous - Lancelot wasn't even hers to be jealous of. It was fear, _she told herself firmly. _Fear because lack of proof or not, there was something very wrong with Branda._

"You look…" Attempting to change the subject onto more neutral ground, she found herself unable to think of anything polite. "You look really tired."

Lancelot gave a huff of amusement.

"Shouldn't you be praising my prowess in battle or my bravery in killing the werewolves Rowan? Where's the mindless flattery that I hold so dear?"

"If you want mindless flattery then you can go and talk to Branda." The words came out a little sharper than she would have liked, and irritated at both herself and Lancelot's arrogance, she squared her shoulders. "How am I supposed to know if you were brave or not, I wasn't there." At his raised eyebrow, she amended the statement. "I mean I'm not saying that you weren't. And it's good that the werewolves are dead, because they killed lots of people and.."

Lancelot took a step closer and her words died off when his hand came up to cup her chin, his thumb brushing over her lips.

"Hush," he said quietly.

Heart pounding, Rowan looked up at him. _Such dark eyes, _she thought, _is that because of all the darkness he had seen?_ His hand was light on her waist, easy enough to escape, but she didn't. When he bent his head to hers she opened herself willingly to him, the coagulated blood on his hauberk sticking her dress to his armour ignored, not caring that anyone could see them. For a few brief moments there was nothing but Lancelot, and when he crushed her to him, Rowan did not protest, although at the back of her mind she wondered why he seemed so afraid of letting her go.

* * *

It took all of Branda's self control not to break all of her self imposed rules and rip both Lancelot and Rowan's throats out. Watching from the shadows, her rage bubbled inside her, and digging her nails into her palm until they drew blood, she forced herself to calm down. She had all but offered herself to the knight on a plate and he had dismissed her as though she were no-one. Now look at him! Slobbering all over that mousy girl as though she were worthy of his attentions. True, the bitch had killed Fridolf and taken the sword, but that had been pure luck from what others had said - she didn't even know what to do with the sword let alone what it symbolised, Branda told herself fiercely. If it hadn't been so important to maintain a low profile she could have killed her a dozen times over without much of a fight. Comforting herself with that thought, she took a deep breath and rested her head on the cold wall behind her. _It was time to get started. Time to forge a new pack and perhaps a new world. _

The footsteps that approached came as little surprise: Branda had made sure to hide where she would be easily found by the guard patrols, but the handsome face of the man who bent over her in concern was a welcome bonus. Letting her hair fall over her face, she pretended to tremble in fear when he touched her.

"Are you alright?" The guard crouched before the young woman in concern. She was obviously frightened, and he did his best to appear non threatening , putting down his sword and holding up his hands to show that he wasn't armed. "Has someone hurt you? What can I do to help?"

The girl shook her head and raised her eyes to his. "What's your name?" She asked softly.

"Alex. Look I can get…" His words were abruptly cut off when Rowan launched herself forward, one hand covering his mouth and cutting off his cry of surprise, the other pinning his shoulder to the ground.

"It's alright, " she said kindly, looking down into his wide eyes before sinking her teeth into his shoulder. "I'm the one who's going to help _you_."

**A/N: Quick update - that's what insomnia will do to you sigh. Thanks very much for the feedback - reviews are kindness and much appreciated. Hope everyone is having a good weekend.**


	20. Chapter 20

**Disclaimer: Nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

"It's too easy." Curled up on the seat by her bedroom window, Guinevere banged her heel against the wall in agitation. "What about the sword? "

"What about it?" With a sigh, Arthur settled into the chair in the corner. Old and ugly the piece of furniture might have been, but in his exhaustion it seemed like heaven as he leant back against the scratchy material. "The werewolves are dead, what does it matter about the sword? There is no-one left to claim it."

"No-one that we know of," Guinevere said darkly. "But there seems to be a lot that we don't know about this country." Rising gracefully, she padded over to the sword that rested in the corner of the room. It was still dull from smoke and blood, but the symbols upon it stood out in stark contrast to the smoothness of the steel. "We should get rid of it. Melt it down or do as Osric said and throw it in the sea. I don't like it, it doesn't seem right to keep it."

"It's just a sword, Guinevere." Arthur yawned and rubbed a large hand over his stubbled cheek. "If it bothers you that much then I'll give it to the smithy. He can melt it down and you can choose what you want the metal for. Or, if you'd rather then you can toss it in the sea, but on your head be it if a child finds it when it's washed up on shore and turns into a werewolf or a monster or whatever other creatures apparently inhabit this land."

Guinevere narrowed her eyes in irritation, but looking at her husband, she found her anger disappearing almost as quickly as it had kindled. Arthur looked utterly exhausted, dark shadows smudged beneath his eyes, his big body slumped in the chair as though even the thought of rising was too much to contemplate.

"You look tired, love." Walking over, she ran her hands through his dark curls and smiled as he rested his head against her belly. "Come to bed." Guinevere removed his armour and undershirt with deft fingers, leading him to the bed when he was fully nude and curling up beside him. He was heavy and solid beside her, and when he laid his head upon her breast, she stroked his shoulder and willed herself to sleep. _They had faced worse_, she told herself as the moonlight skittered across the floor and turned the blade of the sword in the corner to liquid silver._ "The werewolves were dead and there was nothing left to fear. _Nonetheless sleep was a long time coming, and the part of her mind that remained her father's daughter and the warrior of her people niggled at her thoughts until she finally fell into dreamless slumber.

* * *

"It's alright." Branda smiled at the young man beside her and tangled her fingers in his. "There's nothing to be afraid of." 

Alex swayed and gave her a slightly confused look, but let her lead him through the hallways of the fort. A couple of guards passed and patted him on the shoulder, winking at the girl he was with, but they seemed very far away, and it didn't occur to him to argue when Branda giggled and said that he wasn't feeling well, and to please not disturb them until morning. The shock of the night air sobered him a little when she opened a door next to the latrine, but the smell… Choking, he stumbled forward, dry heaving onto the damp grass of the field. The smell had never been pleasant, but this? Dropping to his knees, he breathed deeply. His body seemed to hum, almost as though he had been set ablaze. A small field mouse scurried in the grass a few paces away and he watched it breathlessly. He could hear each movement of its tiny paws, the frantic thudding of its heart in its chest. Without thinking, he threw himself forward, capturing the rodent in his hand and tearing its head off with his teeth before he knew what he was doing.

"That's disgusting." Branda wrinkled her nose and pulled the young guard to his feet by his arm. "It'll be hard at first, but don't worry, you'll learn." Without relinquishing her grip, she jogged down the grassy slope that lay behind the fort and pushed Alex into the forest. Although it was silent and cloaked in shadow, she caught Cynwulf's scent immediately. "Brought you a present, love," she said quietly as the large wolf slipped from the shadows . "You'll have to train him though."

The wolf bounded forward and transformed into his human form. Broad shouldered, tawny haired and more than a little disdainful as he inspected his wife's gift. "Not much of him. Who is he?"

"One of the guards," Branda replied, running her hand over Cynwulf's chest. "You've got tonight to train him, but I need him back at sunrise."

"One night?" Cynwulf raised an eyebrow. "I'll do what I can, but you aren't giving me much time. He's too human Branda, what happened to only turning warriors?"

"I had to improvise," she said curtly. "Besides, you trained me in less than a night, he only need know the basics."

"You weren't human when you _were _human," Cynwulf groused. "I almost pitied your parents."

"Didn't stop you eating them." Looking back nervously at the fort, Branda put her hand on Alex's back and shoved him towards Cynwulf. "Look, he and I have already been seen together. I'll have to go back and do some serious simpering at the tavern to stop anyone getting suspicious."

"While I stay here and look after your cub."

"It won't be long." Kissing Cynwulf hard, Branda stepped away, licking her lips. "You and I are all that matters, and you'll get your chance to shine soon, I promise. Give me a couple more days, let me turn a few more and nothing will stop us."

Cynwulf growled, changing into his wolf form and throwing Branda back onto the leaf litter. Changing back, he grabbed Alex by the ankle when he tried to flee. Knocking the young guard to the ground, he registered his displeasure with a cuff to his head, before turning his attention back to the woman below him.

"Better let me go," Branda said softly, tracing his cheeks with her fingertips. "I'll be missed if I'm not back at the fort soon."

Cynwulf growled, biting down on the soft skin between her neck and her shoulder and licking away the blood.

"Just remember who you belong to," he said quietly, letting go of her. Branda smiled and made a show of picking bits of bracken out of her hair before running off towards Hadrian's wall. He watched until even his keen eyesight could follow her no further before turning his attention to the young man who sat up groggily, blinking in the dim light. "First night?" Alex said nothing, merely watching him with bewilderment, and with a sigh, Cynwulf grabbed his arm and hauled him to his feet. Branda might have her idiosyncrasies, but training new pups really was a bitch.

* * *

Rowan sipped her ale in silence. It was cool and a little bitter, and it provided a welcome distraction from the man who sat opposite her. Lancelot seemed not to share her unease, however. He sat back in his chair, long limbs resting elegantly, his dark eyes watching the comings and goings of the tavern without resting upon her unless he could help it. Clenching her hands in her lap to stop from fidgetting, Rowan hunted for something to break the silence. 

"You were a little curt towards Branda earlier," she said, watching his reaction to her words carefully. "Don't you like her?"

Lancelot took a swallow of his ale, almost draining the tankard and licked his lips thoughtfully before he replied. Dragging her eyes away from the sight of his tongue wetting the full curve of his lower lip, Rowan hastily turned her attention to the table top, willing the sudden heat in her cheeks to subside.

"I'm not sure if young Branda is all she seems," the knight said slowly. He had noticed Rowans blushes and tried not to smile at the effect he was having upon her. "If she truly had been travelling with her husband then it certainly wasn't a love match on her part anyway."

"Because she flirted with you?" Wanting to continue the conversation but unwilling to voice any of her own concerns until she knew more of Lancelot's thoughts, she feigned ignorance. "I expect lots of girls flirt with you. I mean you are a knight and you aren't horrible to look at."

"Thank you," Lancelot said dryly. "But be a little more sparing with your praise, Rowan. I'd hate for you to give me a big head."

Her mouth twisted in a smile that she couldn't quite repress. "Bit late for that."

"So I've been told." Draining his tankard, he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and studied Rowan without embarrassment. She was making a decent attempt at pretending to be abashed at her comment, but her dark eyes danced merrily. _Not such a quiet little mouse anymore, _he thought with pleasure. "In answer to your question - yes, in my experience grieving widows are not usually willing to drop their knickers for the next man who walks past whether they think they owe the man anything or not. But it's more her self assurance that rings false. When you came here you were…" he hunted for the right words.

"I was a complete coward and wanted to hide under the table," Rowan finished for him. "It's alright, it's quite true," she added when Lancelot opened his mouth to protest. "People praised me for surviving the Saxons - bravely running away... It's not actually something to be proud of."

"You had just lost your sister and were alone in a strange place." Reaching over the table, Lancelot took her hand and smiled when she did not flinch away. "You were brave."

"I was lucky." Rowan kept her eyes upon their tangled hands. His fingers were rough but warm around hers, and she wondered what the other patrons of the tavern thought before deciding that she didn't care. "I don't trust Branda," she said quietly. "I think she might be dangerous."

"Dangerous?" Lancelot's voice was puzzled. "You need not fear her, Rowan. She's just…"

"A woman?" Rowan withdrew her hand and looked at him a little affronted. "Women can fight as well as men."

"That they can. I've seen Guinevere and her Woad sisters fighting, and believe me, I'd rather battle the men," he said quickly. "But Branda seems the type to get others to fight her battles for her. From that little scene in the courtyard earlier it looks like she wants a new protector, but rest assured it won't be me."

"You can protect whoever you want," Rowan said a little too quickly. "It's no business of mine."

"Of course not." Lancelot gave her a quick smile, and Rowan fought the urge to empty the dregs of her ale over his head. "But you, Rowan are very much my business. You saved my life and like it or not I'll be keeping an eye on you."

_Kept more than just your eyes on me, _Rowan thought, stifling a giggle.

"I chucked a torch at a bloke and accidentally hit him with a door; it's not exactly the sort of things they make tapestries about," she reasoned. "You don't owe me anything."

"Perhaps not a tapestry," Lancelot acknowledged. "Perhaps a cushion cover?" At her laugh, he smiled. "I enjoy your company Rowan, It pleases me to know that you are safe - is that so wrong?"

She shook her head. "No. No, but remember I'm your…"

"Friend?" he offered when she struggled to find the right word.

"Friend." She nodded. "Not one of your conquests." _Kissing be damned, _she thought to herself _He wouldn't settle for someone like her, and at least friendship would allow them to share moments like this in the future._

"I won't forget." Something flickered in his dark eyes, but when Kyrie deposited another couple of tankards on their table, he raised one up with mock solemnity. "To friendship."

"To friendship." Rowan echoed the sentiment and took a gulp from her own drink. They sat quietly until the tavern gradually emptied before walking back to their rooms, and neither of them noticed the girl who watched them from the shadows, her eyes as bright as the torchlight.

**A/N: Chapter 20 already! Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter - much appreciated : ) Don't worry, things will start hotting up between Rowan and Lancelot fairly soon wicked grin. Oh and shiny gold stars to anyone who spots the Monty Python and the Holy Grail reference - it's become tradition in my long fics lol.**


	21. Chapter 21

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Branda followed Lancelot and Rowan as they ascended the stairs to their rooms before parting. She could smell the arousal between them, and read their body language far more easily than either of her oblivious prey did.

_Idiots, _she thought to herself. It was obvious that they were attracted to each other, but taking a deep breath, she calmed herself. Rowan's loss might yet be her gain. It would be tempting to enter Lancelot's chambers, take her pleasure and turn the young knight, but she quelled her hunger. _Soon, but not yet._ Lancelot was too close to Arthur, his behaviour woud be questioned, and one misstep could prove catastrophic to her plans. Instead she remained in the shadows, silent and still, her skin itching to turn to its wolf form, the copper taste of Alex's blood a lingering taste in her mouth. One of the stable boys ran past her hiding place pulling a giggling maid behind him, but she did not move. They weren't worth turning, and it was not until the soft patter of shoes upon stone signalled a new arrival that Branda smoothed her hair and stepped out of the shadows.

"Hello Kyrie."

The serving girl gave a yelp and almost fell backwards down the stairs . Recovering herself she gave a breathless laugh.

"You scared the wits from me Branda!" Stepping up into the hallway, she looked at the other girl curiously. "What are you doing, hiding in the shadows? You needn't be afraid, the fort is crawling with soldiers; you'll be quite safe in your room."

"I know." Branda dropped her eyes and bit back a smile. " I just wanted to check that everything was alright. I must seem very silly to you."

"Not silly, just human." Kyrie shrugged. "This place is a little overwhelming at the best of times, let me walk you to your room."

Branda looked up hopefully and took Kyrie's proffered arm. "Are you sure? I don't want to cause any trouble."

"It's no trouble," Kyrie replied with a smile, leading the red-headed girl towards the servants quarters. "Galahad can wait for a few minutes longer; it'll give him time to warm the bed!"

"Indeed." The corridor was empty when they reached Branda's room, and the girl smiled as she opened the door. "Come in for a minute, Kyrie, I've got something to show you."

"What?" The younger girl looked at her new friend curiously. "I really should be getting back."

"It'll only take a minute." Rowan gave a guileless smile. "You've never seen anything like it, I promise."

"Just for a moment," Kyrie warned. Stepping into the room, she looked around at the bare furniture and did not notice Branda shutting the door behind her. "What was it that you…" Her words were abruptly cut off as a blow to the back of her head sent her sprawling forwards onto the bed. Pushing herself up onto her elbows, she tried to raise her head, but a sudden weight upon her shoved her back down again.

"I promised didn't I?" Branda whispered in her ear. "Soon you'll see things you've never dreamed of." The words did not have time to register in Kyrie's mind before a searing pain in her side caused her to scream, the noise muffled by the bedclothes and going entirely unnoticed by the girl who had sunk her teeth into her flesh.

* * *

Lancelot awoke for the second time in two days by someone banging on his bedroom door. Sliding off the bed and getting to his feet groggily, he managed to locate his breeches and pull them on before unlatching the door and coming face to face with an extremely agitated Galahad.

"Have you seen Kyrie?" The younger knight demanded. "You were at the tavern, you saw her, do you know what happened to her?"

Lancelot held up a hand, silencing his friend's babbling, and rubbed his hand over his bleary eyes.

"Slow down. Start from the beginning."

"Kyrie didn't come home last night, well not to my bedroom anyway. Eight says that she left her after closing up the tavern, but no-one has seen her since."

"Right." Lancelot's exhaustion vanished, adrenaline and fear sharpening his senses. "Have you checked Llynya's house? Sometimes she stays there."

"She didn't go there - Gawain has talked to the guards, but nothing seemed wrong. She said goodnight to them and came this way. Somehow she vanished between the courtyard and my quarters." Galahad bit his lip, his dark eyes the only colour in his pale face. "I can't lose her, Lancelot. We killed the wolves didn't we? I thought she was safe."

"We don't know that she isn't," Lancelot said firmly. "Give me a moment to get dressed and I'll come and help you look for her."

Galahad nodded. "I'll meet you in the courtyard." Turning, he hurried down the corridor and down the stairs.

"Kyrie's missing?" Rowan's voice startled Lancelot, and turning he watched her pad out into the hallway. Her hair was loose and messy, her clothing obviously thrown on in a hurry. Looking at him, she shrugged sheepishly. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to evesdrop, but Galahad was so noisy. Is Kyrie really gone?"

"So it seems." Lancelot sighed and glanced at the stairs that his friend had bounded down. "She didn't go home last night."

"Then we have to find her," Rowan said fiercely. "I'll help look."

"Oh no you don't." Whirling around to face her, he grabbed her wrist. "You are going to go to the tavern and stay there. We've already got one girl missing, I'm not risking you making it two."

Several outraged replies to this display of dominance flickered through Rowan's mind, but brought face to chest with a half naked Lancelot, she found herself unable to get the words out. Tousled haired, his eyes still squinting sleepily, he nonetheless was almost frighteningly beautiful. Broad shoulders tapering to slim hips, his flat muscles rippling beneath the skin, Rowan forced herself to look away before she gave in to the urge to touch the scar that traversed his side.

"I'm just going to put my shoes on." Pulling out of his grip, she hurried back into her room, cheeks aflame. _Stop it, stop it, stop it, _she told herself fiercely as she pulled her shoes on and dragged a comb through her tangled hair, welcoming the pain. _Kyrie was missing._ That was enough to focus her thoughts, and with a twist in her stomach she wondered what had happened to the gentle girl. And what of Branda? Where had she been when this had happened?" Hurriedly braiding her hair, she got up and slid out into the hallway, closing the door to her room behind her. Lancelot joined her a moment later, but she did her best not to look at him, and neither of them said anything when they walked down to the tavern. Llynya and Gawain stood outside, and with a brief smile to Lancelot and a whispered "be careful," that he was not intended to hear, Rowan walked over to them. The baby resting upon Llynya's hip gave a gummy smile to the girl, but although both his mother and the tawny haired knight greeted her, Rowan noticed the worry pinching their faces.

"Has there been any news?" She asked. "Has anyone found…" Rowan paused and tried to think of a way of saying blood or remains without it sounding as horrible as it undoubtedly was. Gawain saved her the effort.

"We don't know anything at the moment," he said quietly. "It's like she just disappeared."

"But we'll find her," Llynya added swiftly. "She probably just…"

"Probably just what?" All of them turned to see Lucy approach. Her eyes were red rimmed, her clothing obviously put on in a hurry. "What do you think she's doing? Playing a really good game of hide and seek?" Looking at Gawain, she nodded her head to where Tristan , Lancelot and Galahad were deep in discussion. "They want to talk to you, I think they're going to search the woods."

Gawain nodded, kissing first his wife and then his son and nodding at the two girls before departing. "Stay together," he warned. "No wandering off."

The three girls nodded , watching him go before turning to each other.

"Kyrie wouldn't run away," Lucy said with a sniff, rubbing her sleeve over her runny nose. "Someone took her, they must have done."

"I know, I know." Shifting her son's weight upon her hip, Llynya fished for a handkerchief in her sleeve before giving it to Lucy. "But we shouldn't give up hope. It's not like Brennus or Two. We've found no blood, there's no reason to think the worst."

"Then where is she?" Lucy watched as Tristan took his horse from Jols and swung up into the saddle, giving him an attempt at a smile when he nodded at her. "There's something very wrong here."

Rowan silently agreed, but after watching Lancelot depart with the others, she did not go into the kitchen of the tavern as she had said to her friends, instead making her way to the servant's quarters. Although she passed several guards, they did not pay her much attention, recognising her as one of Vanora's serving girls, and so it was without much difficulty that she found herself approaching Branda's door. Steeling herself, she rapped quickly on the aged wood, her heart pounding .

Nothing happened. Knocking again, she found the courage to find the door handle and found the room unlocked.

"Hello?" She said tentatively, inching the door open. "It's me, Rowan."

A sigh of relief escaped her when she realised that Branda was gone. The small bed was neatly made, the ash from the fireplace swept clean, and Rowan wondered what she had hoped to find. A mutilated body? A wolfskin rug? Aside from the bed and a small pile of neatly folded clothes the room was empty, and Rowan stepped away, closing the door behind her. _Where was Branda?_ She wondered. Was she missing too, or had she simply not noticed her amongst the hustle and bustle in the courtyard? Vowing to find out, she made her way back down the stairs. Although the hallway that led outside was quicker, Rowan decided to take a different route. The other passage led past Lynette's quarters, and if the old housekeeper was not busy with her duties, she might perhaps have seen something useful, notorious as she was for keeping a keen eye on the comings and goings of the fort.

However, before Rowan reached the housekeeper's home, a faint cry made her stop in her tracks. Looking around warily, she searched the shadows but saw nothing, and was about to press on when she heard the noise again. This time it was louder and unmistakably the sound of a woman in distress. Walking forward, Rowan listened carefully and followed the sound to the small latrine at the end of the passageway. More than a little embarrassed she knocked on the door.

"Hello?" She called out softly. "Are you alright in there?"

"Wait a moment," a groggy voice answered. Waiting nervously, Rowan listened to the sound of someone fiddling with the latch, before coming face to face with a very unwell looking Kyrie.

"Kyrie?" Quickly grabbing the swaying girl, Rowan lowered her slowly to the floor. "What happened to you?"

Kyrie half opened her eyes and winced as she raised a hand to touch the back of her head.

"I don't remember. One moment I was leaving the tavern, the next I was waking up on the floor in there. I must have hit my head on something."

Leaning forwards, Rowan gently pressed her fingers against the back of Kyrie's skull, wincing when she felt the hot lump upon it.

"You've certainly given your head a pretty hard whack on something," she concurred. "Most of the castle is worried sick about you - Galahad in particular is terrified."

"He always worries too much," Kyrie said with a faint smile. "Would you find him for me? I'm not sure that I can make it back home."

Rowan shook her head. "He's gone looking for you in the forest, along with the other knights. Don't worry, I'll find Tibor and tell Llynya and Lucy where you are."

"Passed out in a latrine," Kyrie said wearily. "I won't live this down anytime soon."

"It's better than being dead," Rowan replied firmly. "Rest a moment, I'll be back before you know it."

"I'm not going anywhere." Kyrie watched as her friend scurried down the hallway and out of sight before resting her head on the cool stone wall. She felt hot and feverish, her head pounding, every noise seemingly amplified. Her side itched and she scratched it thoughtfully. She had been bitten by a dog hadn't she? One of the dogs by the tavern and she had cleaned and dressed it herself. The memory seemed right but at the same time a little odd, as though there was something more to it if she could only remember. A rat scurried past, but she could not find the strength to move her legs out of the way, and so she watched it wearily, telling herself the thud that reverberated in her ears was that of her own heartbeat and not that of the rodent who watched her with bright eyes before disappearing through a crack in the wall.

**A/N: Thanks very much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter - sorry for not replying, hope the new not-especially-cheery-chapter makes up for it.**


	22. Chapter 22

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

"What's going on?" Branda wandered over to the group of people gathered outside the healing rooms, her brown eyes curious.

"Kyrie's sick," Llynya said, stepping away from the others. "She hit her head in the latrine, Tibor thinks she might have a concussion."

"Oh." Branda feigned surprise. "Will she be alright?"

"After a good night's sleep she should be," Rowan replied, walking over to the two girls. "Where have you been Branda? I couldn't find you this morning."

Branda looked up sharply and met Rowan's eyes. The dark haired girl met her gaze with what almost looked like a challenge, and the werewolf bit back the urge to laugh. _So the chit has a backbone after all,_ she thought with amusement.

"I was rather silly," she said with a self depreciating chuckle. "I missed the horses that my husband and I kept back in our village so I went to the stables. I only meant to sit down for a moment, the next thing I know I was woken by the knights readying their mounts. I went to the tavern and Eight told me what had happened." Branda's face was guileless, her eyes innocent, and Rowan struggled hard not to slap the expression from her face and find out what she was really thinking.

"It can't have been a very comfortable night for you," she said instead. "You shouldn't wander off on your own, it isn't safe."

Branda shrugged. "I'll wager I had a better night than Kyrie, and I can take care of myself."

"Rowan's right," Llynya said, nodding at Lucy who had wandered over to them. "We should stay together."

"Forget werewolves and what not," Lucy said wearily, putting her hands upon the small of her back and stretching. "Some of the soldiers don't know how to keep their hands to themselves, especially after a few pints."

Their conversation was interrupted by the door behind them opening. Tibor squinted as the sunlight hit his face, and shielded his eyes with his arm.

"How is Kyrie?" Lucy asked before he had time to adjust his eyes to the light. The young healer had been a friend of her brother's and as such was treated with none of the propriety a man of his rank commanded from the other people at the fort. "Is she going to be alright?"

"God's Lucy, give a man a moment to compose himself why don't you?" Tibor grumbled, shoving his long sandy hair out of his eyes. "Kyrie'll be fine, she just needs some rest. She's got a nasty bump on the head and spent the night on a latrine floor so she's not exactly full of the joys of spring, but I can't see that she's suffered any permanent damage. You can see her later, but leave her be for the moment."

"You are a very clever man, Tibor," Lucy stated, rising on tiptoe and kissing his cheek. "We are lucky to have you."

"Yes. Well…" Tibor blushed a little but pretended not to be flattered by the compliment. "You shouldn't go over-exciting yourself Lucy. I have no desire to deliver your babe in the middle of the courtyard."

"It'll come when it wants to," Lucy shrugged and patted her stomach fondly. "That's if it's anything like it's father anyway."

"God forbid," Tibor murmured, earning himself a glare from Lucy and a giggle from Llynya. "Get on with you," he said firmly to the gathered women. "You can see Kyrie later, but she needs peace and quiet for the moment and she's not going to get it with you lot hanging around. Now if you'll excuse me, I have some supplies to pick up."

"Alright." With a sigh, Llynya looked over at the tavern. Vanora had returned to work that morning, a little pale and without her customary smile, and she would need help, she thought. "Come on," she said to Lucy, "we should get going." Hesitating, she looked at Branda and Rowan. "You are both welcome to join us."

Rowan shook her head. "I promised Lynette I'd do some work for her today , but I'll come and help when I'm done if that's alright."

"Of course." Llynya smiled. "It's about time we had a decent seamstress at the fort. Lynette is lovely, but her eyesight isn't what it used to be. I ended up unpicking and re-sewing the stitching she did on Gawain's tunic when it came back from being mended." Turning her attention to the red-haired girl, she raised an eyebrow. "And what about you, Branda? Do you want to help with breakfast?"

"I will, thank you," Branda replied. "If it's not too much trouble I'll go to my quarters and have a wash first though - I wouldn't be surprised if mice were nesting in my hair."

"Come down when you are ready," Llynya said, turning towards the tavern. "We'll see you later, Rowan." Lucy followed her friend with a swift wave goodbye to the other girls, and for a moment Branda and Rowan were left alone.

"It's strange that Kyrie should fall like that," Rowan said quietly not taking her eyes off Branda. "I wonder what happened."

Branda shrugged. "Perhaps a monster got her." With a smile that showed her neat, white teeth, she gave Rowan a considering look. "Speaking of beasts, where's that dog of yours?"

"Lark? She isn't a beast.." Suddenly remembering that Lark was in her room and needed feeding and letting out to relieve herself, Rowan bit her lip. She didn't want to leave Branda alone, but she had promised to do some work for Lynette, and she was responsible for Lark. She'd just have to try and keep an eye on Branda as best she could. "Llynya is right, we shouldn't wander off alone. Lynette has enough work for the both of us if you want it."

"I'm not much of a seamstress," Branda replied with a shrug. "I expect I'll see you later at the tavern."

"I suppose so." Rowan smiled and walked away. Short of knocking Branda out and hiding her in her room (a very attractive idea, she thought darkly), she had no right nor opportunity to follow the girl's every move. Hurring up the stairs to her chamber, she inwardly cursed herself. Kyrie might well have merely fallen, but it seemed a strange coincidence that Branda had been missing when the accident had occured. Unlatching her door, Rowan knelt down and hugged Lark who greeted her with dancing paws and a series of short barks. The dog nuzzled her shoulder, and rubbing her hand over the dog's back, Rowan was uncomfortably aware that she wished that Lancelot was there to talk to.

* * *

Branda watched Rowan go with a smile that slid from her face as soon as the other girl had gone. Walking towards the stables, she ducked out of sight swiftly and made her way behind the hay barn and towards the back door to the healing rooms. The door was latched, but kicking it swiftly, the metal buckled, and she managed to slide inside. Kyrie was the only patient at present, and feeling a shiver of delicious excitement, Branda practically bounded up the stairs to her room. Shutting the door behind her, Branda padded over to the bed and regarded the woman who occupied it. Kyrie's face was pale, her hair clinging to her cheeks in damp strands. Touching her cheek, Branda was gratified when her eyes opened blearily.

"There you are," Branda whispered. "Sleep while you can, for you and I have much to do."

"Galahad?" Kyrie whispered. "What's happening,? What…"

"Shhh." Branda put her hand over Kyrie's mouth, tensing at a sudden noise outside. A rat scrambled down from the thatched roof before disappearing down the corridor, and Branda relaxed, turning her attention once again to the girl. "You'll see Galahad soon enough. You know what you have to do, don't you?"

"No." Kyrie whimpered and tried to sit up, only to be shoved back down onto the bed. "I won't."

"Aren't you hungry?" Branda asked quietly. "Doesn't it hurt?" Withdrawing a dagger from her boot she shoved her sleeve up and made a shallow cut upon her upper arm. Kyrie watched the blood flow, and Branda smiled with satisfaction as the younger girl's dark eyes gleamed like topaz as the bloodlust within her awakened. "Just a little," she whispered wiping away the crimson fluid and letting Kyrie lick it from her hand, withdrawing when Kyrie made to bite her. "You'll eat later." Sliding gracefully off the bed, she smiled at the girl who looked at her with bewilderment. "Don't you love your Galahad? Haven't you tasted him a thousand times before? It's just another way of loving, my sweet." With a wink and a smile she was gone, closing the door behind her, and leaving Kyrie with the taste of blood on her lips and a gnawing hunger that had her turning her head into head in the pillow and biting down to muffle her howl of pain and confusion.

* * *

Clattering into the courtyard, Arthur paused before looking back at his knights. They had found no sign of Kyrie or of anyone or anything that might have taken her, and while he tried to believe that this was a good thing, he knew that Galahad would not be reassured.

"My lord." Llynya raced out of the tavern, holding her skirts out of the way, closely followed by Lucy who skidded to a halt in front of the youngest knight.

"Where is she?" Galahad did not need Lucy to speak to know that Kyrie had been found. Swinging off his horse, he grabbed the blonde girl's arm, only to be pulled away violently by Tristan.

"Leave her be," the scout growled, and taking a steadying breath, Galahad forced himself to be calm.

"Forgive me Lucy," he apologised to the wide-eyed girl. "Have you found Kyrie?"

"We have," Lucy stammered. "She wasn't ever lost, not really. She fell over in the .. Er.. Latrine and knocked herself out. But she's alright," she said hastily. "Tibor says she'll be fine after she's rested a bit."

Tristan gave a chuckle and Galahad turned to glare at him before shaking his head and giving a rueful laugh himself.

"That's it. She'll have to marry me now after all she's put me through."

"You've passed out in a latrine before," Gawain retorted having overheard the conversation. "I looked for you for hours and you never offered to marry me afterwards."

"You didn't look for me- you laughed at me and then knocked yourself out when you tried to climb onto the stable roof," Galahad corrected. Relief spread warm and heavy through his body, and he gave his friend a smile. "Would you.."

"Of course." Clapping Galahad on the shoulder, Gawain took his horse's reins off him and led both their mounts to the stable. "And make sure to keep a better eye on your woman in the future," he added as Llynya kissed his cheek and took one of the horses from him.

Galahad paid little attention to his brothers or Arthur's words that were lost in the wind as he bounded across the courtyard and flung open the door to the healing rooms. Tibor was not present, but he barely noticed as he hurried up the steps and opened the only door in the short hallway that was shut.

"Kyrie?"

The girl in the bed turned her head away , drawing the blanket that covered her closer.

"Go," she whispered. "Please, Galahad, get away from here."

"Don't be stupid." The young knight said, reaching out to touch Kyrie's trembling shoulder. "It's alright, you're safe."

"But you're not. Please. Go." Kyrie's body shuddered beneath Galahad's fingers and he withdrew his hand in confusion.

"Go!" It wasn't so much a request as a cry, and realising that something was very wrong, Galahad gripped Kyrie's shoulder and pulled her onto her back. She looked at him for a brief moment, wild eyed, her teeth bared, and it was only the arrow that pierced Kyries shoulder, pinning her to the bed that prevented her from tearing his throat out.

"Get back." Tristan's voice was low, but as ever Galahad obeyed it. "That's not her anymore."

"Tristan!" Realising what the scout meant to do, Galahad leapt forward, grabbing Tristan's arm and sending the arrow aimed at Kyrie's head spinning sideways to smash into the wall. "She's not… Don't.." His words died off when he looked at his lover. Kyrie's eyes glowed with an inhuman light, her teeth bared at the two knights as she tried to remove the arrow from her shoulder. "It's not her fault," he said quietly. Taking two steps forward, he backhanded Kyrie across the face and watched numbly as she collapsed upon the bed. "It's not her fault."

"It's too late," Tristan said quietly. "She wouldn't want this."

"And who are you to say what she would want?" Galahad snarled. His anger changed his boyish handsomeness to hard planes and flashing eyes, and Tristan recoiled a little in recognition. "Whatever has happened to her can be undone. You try and take her life, Tristan, then you'll have to take mine first."

"Trist.." Pushing open the door, Lucy's voice faltered as she looked at the scene in front of her; Kyrie lay limp and unmoving upon the bed, Galahad's narrowed eyes and evident hostility a sharp contrast to Tristan's stillness. Had she not known the scout as well as she did then she would have mistaken his calmness for reassurance, but taking in the tightness of his jaw and the bow that he held clenched against his side, she held up a hand as though that could calm him. "Tristan?" moving towards him, Lucy placed a hand upon her lover's arm. "We are all friends here are we not?"

Galahad did not take his eyes from Tristan's, ignoring Lucy, he took advantage of the brief distraction and scooped Kyrie into his arms.

"It's not her fault," he said desperately. "I'll keep her safe until we find out how to turn her back." Brushing past Lucy and Tristan, he carried the unconscious girl down the stairs and out of sight.

"Kyrie.." Lucy whispered. "She. She isn't.." Tangling her fingers in Tristan's she tried to look at him but he would not meet her eyes.

"I'm sorry." Tristan's words were curt, his face expressionless. "We failed."

**A/N: Oh I know I'm an evil cow for leaving you in suspense, but I promise to update as soon as I can. Thanks very much to my adorable reviewers, and a quick plug for a film (or movie for those across the pond ;) Go see Atonement if you get the chance. I know that Keira Knightly is a bit persona non grata when it comes to KA, but the film is gorgeous. Take lots of tissues though.**

**Once again this chapter has been upbeata'd by Mulder, feline queen of the universe. All mistakes I'm blaming on her.**


	23. Chapter 23

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

"Galahad…" Arthur looked helplessly at his youngest knight. "This can't go on. You know that, _she _would have known it." The dungeons of the fort were cold and dank, but that was not made the king shudder beneath his heavy tunic. "We have to…"

"Take one more step forward, Arthur and I'll stop you." Galahad sat slumped against the slimy stone wall, one hand upon his sword. His voice was calm, but his eyes did not move from the cage across from him. Kyrie sat crouched in the corner, hair hanging over her face, her dress already streaked with blood from the several cuts she had acquired from trying to bash her way through the bars. Weaving slightly from side to side, she ignored the gentle words spoken to her, the pleas for her to see reason. Her eyes, amber in the dim light, gleamed through her snarled hair, but there was nothing of the girl she had been only a few hours before reflected in their light.

"She's gone," Arthur said quietly. The creature in the cell twitched slightly at the sound of his voice, and he quelled a brief surge of nausea. He had known and liked Kyrie, but to see her like this… This was a disease they had no way of treating, and even without the blood soaking her dress from her damaged shoulder it was clear that the girl was suffering. "It would be kinder…"

Galahad rose to his feet swiftly, the dark hollows beneath his eyes making them seem almost black.

"I've told you once Arthur, no-one touches her. There has to be another way."

"And if there isn't? " His commander asked quietly.

"She's my responsibility." Galahad met Arthur's eyes and both of them acknowledged the words that he had not spoken.

"There are myths, legends regarding werewolves," Guinevere said hesitantly. Stepping down into the narrow corridor, she averted her eyes from Kyrie and instead looked at Galahad. "I can't go to Osric; the goddess knows where he's taken Isola now, but there are stories, both amongst my people and others regarding werewolves. If there is some way…" Her voice trailed off as Kyrie scrambled over to the bars of the cell and watched her intently, fingers clenched white beneath the blood that coated them. "I.. I'll find out what I can." Ignoring the brush of Arthur's hand upon her shoulder, Guinevere ran up the stairs and into the blessedly fresh air.

* * *

Rowan had made herself scarce short moments after seeing Kyrie. Both she and Llynya had visited the girl in the hope that their familiar voices might help calm her, but after several horrible seconds of the normally gentle girl throwing herself at the bars of the cell, her teeth bared, eyes ablaze, they had both fled. Llynya to the arms of Gawain and her son, Rowan to the quietest corner of the fort that she could find. Lancelot had met her eyes in the courtyard, but she hadn't gone to him although she had desperately wanted to. Handsome and solid, he seemed like an island in a stormy sea where she might find refuge, instead she had turned and hurried away. He muddled her thoughts and they were confused enough already. Now, huddled in a dark alcove near to the king's private quarters, she willed herself to be calm. There was no doubt that Kyrie was now a werewolf, and that was bad enough, but she had to have been bitten by someone else. Someone who even now might be roaming the castle. _Bollocks to that, _she thought irritably, there was no "someone" about it. It was time to tell Lancelot what she suspected about Branda. He might not agree without proof, but he probably wouldn't laugh at her, and it would be better to be wrong and made be an idiot of than say nothing if she was right.

It was something of a relief to finally make her mind up, but before she could unfurl herself from her hiding place, the sound of quiet footsteps pattering down the corridor made her freeze. Whoever it was did not wear the heavy boots the guards did, and with a sinking feeling, Rowan peeked around the corner, making sure to keep her face in shadow. Branda was obviously too preoccupied with the keys she tried one by one in the lock in the door of the king's chambers to notice she was being observed, and Rowan pulled her head back quickly, her heart pounding. _What to do? What to do? _She could make it to the staircase at the end of the hall without being caught if not seen, that she was fairly certain of, but what if the king or the queen were asleep in their chambers? She had seen neither of them since the morning and both had looked weary. _What if Branda meant to do to them what she had done to Kyrie? _Cursing silently, she berated herself for leaving Lark with Tom while she visited Kyrie before getting to her feet. Adrenaline gave everything a strange almost too detailed shimmer, and without thinking further, she ran down the corridor and shoved open the door to the royal chambers.

"Rowan!" Branda looked at her in utter astonishment for a moment before gaining control of herself. "What are you doing here?"

"I could ask the same thing of you," Rowan replied. She had been in the king's study once before when she had been brought to Hadrians wall and knew that the sleeping chamber was in the next room, but apparently both rooms were empty since her arrival had been far from quiet. "What are you looking for?"

"Looking for?" Branda raised an eyebrow and widened her eyes. "I'm lost, that's all. It's a big place. All these rooms, all these passageways." Walking slowly around the big desk that dominated the room, she leapt towards the door and slammed it shut before Branda had a chance to stop her. "Not really fooling you, am I?" she said with a rueful laugh. "Still, never mind. I was going to kill you at some point anyway."

Backing up slowly, Rowan bumped into a shelf sending a cascade of scrolls over her head. Grabbing one, she held it before her as though it were a weapon.

"Seriously?" Branda looked at her in disbelief. "Don't you know? No werewolf ever died of a paper cut." Leaping forwards she shifted, her body twisting and changing.

Rowan threw herself sideways, scrambling towards the desk. Branda wasn't Branda anymore, and relying on panicked instinct rather than skill, she hurled the scroll back behind her. It bounced off the wolf's muzzle harmlessly, but the wolf was still struggling out of the dress that it's previous form was wearing, and hauling herself to her feet, she looked around desperately for something to use as a weapon. With a snarl, Branda freed herself of the clothing and stepped sideways, keeping Rowan in her sights. The wolf's quarters were hunched ready to spring, her eyes bright and unblinking.

"Bitch," Rowan half whispered. The desk behind her was too heavy to move, but grabbing the chair that sat by it, she managed to swing it sideways, catching the wolf on the side and throwing it into a wooden chest. The impact knocked Rowan backwards onto a heavy wooden case, bruising her ribs and knocking the breath from her. Darkness flickered at the edges of her sight, but Rowan stumbled to her feet, shoving open the door to Arthur's bed chambers. Branda snarled behind her, eyes bright as hellfire, but Rowan managed to kick the door shut. Backing up, her breath tearing from her lungs, she scrambled onto the bed and over the other side. She didn't have enough breath to scream, and she'd be dead before anyone came to her rescue, she realised with the little part of her brain that wasn't consumed with terror. A thud echoed against the door, shaking the wood and bending the latch that had snapped closed when the door was pushed shut. Branda meant to have her one way or another, Rowan realised, and sweeping her eyes over the bare chamber for any means of escape, her eyes instead lit upon a gleam of silver in the corner of the room. _A sword. _Scrambling over to it, she knocked it to the floor in her haste, her fingers barely closing upon the hilt when the door crashed open, the powerful wolf bounding over the floor and onto the bed . Rowan didn't think, didn't do anything but let blind fury and instinct guide her. Swinging the sword up with difficulty, she slammed the blade into the wolf's side. The blade bounced off a rib and sank into soft flesh, and for a moment Rowan's eyes met Branda's. Human and yet inhuman those eyes, but the pain the werewolf felt was unmistakable, as was the sharp odour of burning flesh where the sword had penetrated. With a howl of pain that scythed through the silence, Branda fell sideways, the blade ripping from her flesh. She shook her head, chest heaving, the floor beneath her splattered with blood before turning and running towards the door . Rowan pushed herself to her feet, still gripping the bloodied sword, but aside from a trail of blood, there was no sign of the werewolf. Arthur's study was empty as was the hallway, and giddy with fear and adrenaline, Rowan made her way to the one place that she knew that she would be safe.

* * *

Lancelot sat on his bed and stared at the wall. It was an old habit, although it had been a punishment at first. Before he had learnt to if not control his temper then subdue it, Arthur had made him sit quietly on his own after he had spoken out of turn. Many a Roman had escaped a fight when he had been young and easily riled, Lancelot thought ruefully, but then he himself had escaped the potential repercussions, and like it or not, Arthur had known him well enough to keep him alive. The Gods knew that he had been eager enough to trade his life for a few moments of suicidal defiance back in the early days. Now such quiet times were as much a part of his training as the swordplay he practiced and the lessons in Latin that Arthur taught he and his brothers. Above all such quiet time let him sort through the tangle of his mind and make sense of things. The brazier on the wall sputtered, but he gave it only a brief glance. Its light was gradually overshadowing the setting sun outside, and it would not be long before he would be called back to duty. Until then he would try to find what was left of him again.

There was a time that he could have gone to Arthur or any of his fellow knights and told them of his fears. He and Arthur had been close once, and they still were, but his king did not need him in the way that he had before. Guinevere was his queen and confidante; clever, beautiful and kind. A worthy partner to his king and one that he loved as a friend. His brothers too had settled; found women that bore their babies and assuaged their sorrows; brought light into this land of snow and rain. Those who had fought beside him, killed and mourned the men who did not return from the battlefield were now different from him. Love had softened them, gave them something undreamt of only a couple of years ago.

For the hundreth time that day Lancelot thought of Rowan. Forget being under his protection, he'd already gone far beyond the duty of a benevolent bodyguard and she had obviously been too frightened to pull away. She hadn't even looked at him when she and Llynya had emerged from the dungeons after visiting Kyrie. That in itself spoke volumes, but nonetheless it had hurt more than he had thought possible, and more than was warranted given the fact that Rowan wasn't hurt, wasn't his, and obviously regretted the brief kisses that they had shared.

An image of Galahad, white faced and dishevelled, flashed through his memory and he grimaced. Kyrie was surely lost, and with her Galahad's heart. He and the others would be fighting the werewolf with one of their number down in spirit if not in presence. Perhaps it was better to remain as he was, Lancelot decided. There were enough pretty wenches in the tavern to satisfy his appetite, enough trouble to keep his mind busy… His musings were cut off by a knocking on his door that did not cease even when he snarled at the visitor to shut up while he found his shirt.

"What?" Flinging open the door, his irritation vanished when Rowan all but fell into his arms. Wild eyed and tousled haired, she thrust the sword that she was carrying into his hand and looked up at him with wary dark eyes.

"Do you trust me?" She asked breathlessly. "We've got to stop her… Branda, I mean. Do you trust me?"

Lancelot gazed down at her in utter confusion for a moment, and mistaking it for disbelief, Rowan gathered her courage and pulled his head down, kissing him on the lips before letting him go.

"Please."

She hadn't needed to kiss him. Lancelot had pulled her inside his chamber before she had even started to tell her story.

**A/N: Big hugs to my reviewers (Shay book - lol, we'll see, Tristan's family is certainly going to get a bit bigger very soon ;) And more Kyrie/ Galahad soon I promise Princess Myra - thanks for reviewing). Fluff next chapter for those who've been nagging me (and rightly so). I'm afraid that I do take forever to get to the point, but let's just say that I've lit the blue touch paper on this story and there won't be too many chapters left to come.**


	24. Chapter 24

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

**Warning, there is smut in this chapter. If you'd like a pg version of the chapter then either email or PM me (contact details are on my profile page).**

"You're sure?" He didn't really need to ask the question, Lancelot realised. There was no deceit in Rowan's eyes and no reason for her to lie.

"Branda's a werewolf. One moment she was her, the next… A thing… A wolf," Rowan repeated, moving her weight from foot to foot in agitation. "She must have bitten Kyrie."

"If you wounded her then the blood trail must still be fresh." Grabbing his sword, Lancelot quickly buckled the scabbard to his belt. "Stay here and lock the door behind you."

"What?" Rowan narrowed her eyes. "I'm going with you. I've already taken a chunk out of Branda, and I'm going to make sure the job gets finished." Brandishing the bloody sword that she still held, she squared her shoulders and gave the knight the best glare she could muster. "I can fight, I'm not afraid." Lancelot raised an eyebrow at her trembling hands and she amended the statement. "Alright, I am afraid, but I can fight - I just did. And you can't leave me here not knowing what's happening."

With a sigh of irritation, Lancelot looked at her. He'd be much happier if she stayed put, but at least if she was with him then he could keep an eye on her.

"Alright. But you stay close," he warned, motioning for her to follow him. "And please keep that sword by your side and not pointed at me. I didn't survive a Saxon invasion only to lose my head to you by accident." The flippant comment had the desired effect; Rowan's mouth twitched in a half hearted smile, and she lessened her white knuckled grip on the sword a little. Branda was out there somewhere - dead if they were lucky, wounded and out for vengeance if, as was more likely, she wasn't. He needed Rowan alert not terrified, but looking at her pale, tense face, he resisted the urge to march her back to her room and lock her out of harms way. Instead he ushered her down the steps of the knights' quarters and outside towards the dungeon. He wasn't sure where Arthur was, but Galahad wouldn't leave Kyrie and since she couldn't leave the dungeon, chances were that one or more of his brothers in arms would be found there.

They were in luck. Arthur stood by the passageway that led to the cells, deep in conversation with Tristan and Gawain. All three looked around when Lancelot strode towards them, Rowan hurrying beside him.

"Branda's a werewolf," Lancelot stated, taking no time for either a greeting or explaining what had happened beyond the bare facts. "Rowan found her in the royal quarters and she changed in front of her. She's injured, but probably not dead. She fled, but if we are quick then we can probably catch her."

Arthur blinked in surprise, but swiftly recovered himself.

"Are you sure?" he asked. "When did this happen?"

"She's sure," Lancelot nodded at Rowan, "and that's good enough for me. As for when… not long ago, a matter of minutes."

"She was in your study, I don't know what she was doing," Rowan added. "I hit her with the sword," she held out the weapon before lowering it, feeling slightly silly. "I hurt her, there was a lot of blood, but she ran away."

"Arthur?" Tristan looked at his king swiftly. Arthur nodded. The scout did not need to be told what to do.

"Get Eadgyth, don't ride alone. If she's hurt then she won't have gone far, but we don't know if she's part of another pack - track her as well as you can and then return. We fight together or not at all."

Tristan gave a curt nod and headed off to towards the barracks where Eadgyth, the Woad scout dwelt, disappearing into the darkness like the shadow some whispered him to be.

"Rowan?"

Jerking her gaze away, Rowan looked up almost guiltily and met the king's green gaze.

"You did well, thank you." Arthur touched her gently on the cheek, and she fought the urge to shout at him. _I wasn't brave, I didn't have any choice. I'm just a seamstress - I shouldn't be standing here talking to a king about werewolves. This should be one of Alyce's stories, not real._ Instead she dropped her eyes and gave a wobbly attempt at a curtsey.

"Take her back to her room," Arthur said quietly. He had seen enough novices return home from their first battle to recognise the over brightness of Rowan's eyes and the brittle tenseness of her body. "Meet me in my quarters when you have her settled."

Lancelot nodded, clasping his friend and commanders arm in thanks for his understanding before leading Rowan away. She followed him mutely, taking each step quickly but carefully, her trembling subsiding as they made their way to their chambers. He paused at the top of the stairs, glancing at the girl beside him. She looked very lost and very vulnerable, and without thinking, he pushed open the door to his room and sat her down on the bed, draping his cloak over her shoulders before walking over to the fire.

Rowan watched as Lancelot threw another log onto the fire and snuggled into the cloak he had given her. It was warm from his body, slightly scratchy where it had been mended a dozen times, but comforting in a way that she couldn't quite give voice to.

"I wondered about Branda," she said quietly. "Kyrie… I could have stopped it."

"What you did was very brave," Lancelot said quietly.

"It wasn't." Rowan hesitated and shoved her hands between her knees. "It wasn't like… I didn't know what I was doing. It wasn't like going willingly into battle, it just happened. I didn't want to fight her - I probably would have run away if I thought I'd have to."

"You think that every soldier goes into battle willingly?" Although his tone was neutral, Rowan caught the sudden tenseness of his posture and the flash in his dark eyes. Perhaps merely the reflection of the firelight, but perhaps something more. Changing the subject quickly, she hunted for something to say.

"What's going to happen to Kyrie?"

"Arthur will look for a cure, and if there is none to be found then Galahad will kill her." Lancelot's words were short, to the point, and looking at his form silhouetted before the fire, Rowan found herself momentarily lost for words.

"Galahad wouldn't," she whispered eventually. "He loves her."

"That he does. Enough to know she wouldn't want to be left as some sort of monster if there was something he could do about it." Rubbing a hand through his curls wearily, he fought the urge to slump onto the floor and instead took a couple of steps across the room before sitting at the end of the bed. Rowan watched him, eyes narrowed, so prim and proper with her legs crossed and her hair tied back neatly despite all that had happened to her that he wanted to laugh for some ridiculous reason. Of all the women that had shared his bedchamber, she was certainly the most incongruous.

Rowan caught his appraising look and shifted uncomfortably, although she did not move away when he sat down.

"It won't come to that," she said with a certainty that she did not feel. "Arthur will find a way to help her."

"Arthur?" Lancelot raised an eyebrow and looked at her with mild surprise. "You have a lot of faith in our king don't you? What makes you put your trust in him so easily?"

"Are you saying that I shouldn't?" Glancing at the man beside her, she tried to meet his eyes, but instead saw only the shadow of his lashes on his cheekbones. She couldn't read his body language nor gauge his expression, so instead Rowan rested her elbows on her knees and tried to concentrate on the fire. Despite everything that had happened she felt strangely reassured by his presence.

"Arthur is a good king and a good man, but he's not flawless, Rowan." Studying the woman sat beside him, he caught the brief gleam of her eyes before she looked away. "None of us are."

For a moment both of them were silent, the crackle of the fire the only sound in the small chamber. It was Rowan who broke the silence, although her voice was hesitant.

"I used to tell Alyce that - my sister. She loved the stories of Arthur Castus and his knights. The brave deeds, the battles, the heroics. How beautiful Guinevere was rescued from a dozen soldiers. I told her that people that perfect couldn't be real. I wish that she could have met you."

Lancelot laughed, shaking his head and giving Rowan a tired smile. "I'm not sure I agree. Guinevere was fished out of a nobleman's dungeon half dead and guarded by a half dozen deranged monks, and as for heroics.. We do what we can to survive. Stories are just that - a pretty way of making the best out of bad memories. You've seen enough of the world Rowan, do you still believe in fairytales?"

His voice seemed so weary that Rowan shifted over to him without really thinking about what she was doing.

"I don't know," she said honestly. "A week ago I would have laughed at the idea of werewolves. But you aren't so very different from the stories." Suddenly aware of the warmth of his skin against her side, she dropped her head, her mouth dry. Any attempt at thinking of a witty comment, an excuse for getting off the bed - Gods even the willpower to make her limbs move away, seemed more complicated than remembering the few words of Latin her mother had tried to teach her as a child.

Lancelot saved her the trouble of thinking. Cupping her cheek in his hand, he bent his mouth to hers, pressing her gently back on to the bed.

Rowan didn't protest. His bulk was solid above her, his mouth gentle as he sucked her lower lip before kissing the hollow of her throat. Whimpering, her body tense, she shivered when one hand cupped her breast, the air leaving her body in an involuntary sigh when he pressed his hips against hers, rocking against her in a slow rhythm. He took his time: kissing her throat, the curve of her jaw; gentle, unthreatening kisses that stripped the world of everything but his mouth and his touch, and the heat that spread throughout her body.

"Rowan," Lancelot murmured, raising himself up on one arm and watching her as he slid a hand down to the hem of her dress. _She should tell him to stop, _Rowan thought blurrily. _She was a good girl and this wasn't the way in which good girls behaved, _but Gods there was a hunger within her that she didn't quite understand, and when his warm hand traced the curve of her calf and crept higher, she whimpered and met his eyes breathlessly, desperate for something she didn't quite understand.

"Easy, it's alright," he whispered gently, deft fingers finding the hot core of her and stroking gently. "Just let it happen."

It happened faster than either of them imagined. Dropping his mouth to Rowan's, Lancelot's tongue stroked hers gently, mimicking the rhythm of his hand, and muffling her cry when she tensed and shuddered against him.

"Good girl," he said softly, kissing her on the forehead and smoothing her dress back down. He was hard and aching, but managed to push his desire down. From Rowan's wide eyed expression he was the first to touch her in such an intimate way, and a hasty coupling would be disastrous; as it was he felt a little guilty at pushing her boundaries so far.

"What was… I mean." Rowan pushed herself up to a sitting position none too gracefully. Her limbs felt like rubber, her skin flushed and sensitive from the wave of pleasure that had coursed through her. Swallowing hard, she gazed dazedly at the floor, unwilling to look at the man sat beside her. "I shouldn't have done that."

Lancelot stifled a smile and instead brushed a lock of hair from her cheek. The tidy braid that should have held it was messy, her cheeks pink. She looked like a woman who knew the pleasures of the flesh, he thought with no little satisfaction.

"There's no shame in it," he said quietly, turning her head to face him. "Men and women were made for pleasure, for love. If you don't want me to touch you then I wont, but don't feel guilty about enjoying something that is perfectly natural."

Rowan took a moment for his words to sink in. By all accounts she had acted like… well a trollop to use one of her mother's expressions, but she couldn't bring herself to regret what had happened. All this time and she had never known what her body was capable of. Perhaps it was Lancelot, she wondered. Perhaps he had magic like some of the Woads were rumoured to have and he had bewitched her. Glancing at him quickly, she gave a quick smile and felt her heart quicken when he returned it. Reluctantly, Lancelot got to his feet and rolled his shoulders, wincing as his joints cracked.

"I'm going to see if there's any news. You can stay here or in your own chambers, whichever you prefer." When Rowan opened her mouth to protest, he shook his head firmly. "Stay here, Rowan. Please. You've done more than anyone could have expected of you, but Branda is no doubt after your blood and if Arthur sends us out after her I'll need my wits about me. Don't make me worry about you when I should be worrying about crazy women with a taste for human flesh."

"You're going to go after her?" Rowan's stomach clenched in fear, and turning her attention to the blanket that lay beside her, she tried to keep her voice steady. "Arthur sent the scouts after her, you don't have to go."

"I do as I am commanded," Lancelot said, buckling his hauberk. "Tristan and Eadgyth were sent to locate Branda, that's all. They won't attack without back-up - for all we know there's another dozen wolves out there in the forest."

"But you'll be careful, you know not to trust Branda don't you?" Rowan blurted out. Lancelot looked at her in surprise; he had seen her afraid before, but this time the fear was for him and it made him pause. Something had changed within him, was still changing, and he was a little afraid of thinking about it too closely. Instead he walked over to her and kissed her on the forehead, running a hand over her cheek before drawing away.

"Lock the door behind me and don't open it to anyone unless you are sure that you can trust them. Promise me you'll do that."

Rowan nodded, eyes bright and a little bewildered. "I promise," she whispered. Lancelot didn't say anything further, but he looked at her for a long moment before leaving, and true to her promise, Rowan locked the door behind him after he had left.

**A/N: Lancelot/Rowan fluff finally - and it only took 24 chapters lol. I've written so much horrible gore in this story I've kind of forgotten how to write smut so I hope it was ok. Thanks very much to everyone who reviewed the last chapter - very much appreciated. **


	25. Chapter 25

**Disclaimer: nothing that you recognise belongs to me.**

"Arthur!" Lancelot jogged down the passageway towards his friend. The king was illuminated by the brazier that burned behind him, his expression tense in the flickering light. Without a word, he beckoned his friend into the conference room, dismissing the servant he had been talking to with a nod.

"What news is there?" Lancelot asked quietly, falling into step beside him. "Has Tristan returned?"

"No." Arthur gestured to the fabled round table where all his knights sat save for the scout and the man beside him. "Sit down, we have much to discuss." The expression upon Arthur's face was far more eloquent than his words, and so for once Lancelot followed his orders. Settling into his chair he nodded at Guinevere who stood nervous and almost wraithlike in the corner and cast a brief eye over his brothers as he did so. Gawain met his eyes and gave him a brief nod in acknowledgement, but neither Bors nor Galahad paid much attention to his entrance; the older knight watching Arthur like a hunting dog that was desperate to be released from its leash, the younger white faced and still, the smudges of exhaustion beneath his eyes making him seem even younger than his years. For the fiftieth time in since he had left her, Lancelot prayed to whatever power had let him live this long, that Rowan had done as he had asked and locked the door behind him.

"Knights." Arthur leant down, resting his palms upon the table and regarding his men solemnly. "You know by now we - I have been unwise." He met their eyes unflinchingly, but his voice was raspy with emotion as he continued. "I provided haven to Branda - a girl that has proven to be a monster, a werewolf that has done unspeakable damage to those that you have held dear. For that I am truly sorry. For that I promise to bring retribution. The.. Girl has been wounded, but given the fact that she managed to make it out of the fort then she is obviously not dead. As yet we do not know whether she is working alone or as part of another pack, and so I must ask you to be patient until the scouts return. The guards have been sent to make sure that no-one leaves their homes - your loved ones are safe, do not fear for them, but when Tristan and Eadgyth return we ride. We fight. Can I count on you?"

"Aye," Gawain and Lancelot said softly. Galahad said nothing but gave a brief nod before draining his goblet of wine. Bors, however, got to his feet and looked at Arthur tiredly. He reminded Lancelot of a wounded bull, his size somehow diminished by grief and exhaustion, but his voice was steady when he spoke.

"I'm with you. We're all with you. We have been since it wasn't a request but an order when you asked us to fight. But killing the bitch won't bring my son back and it won't help his girl," he nodded towards Galahad. "We finish this now. Tonight. Branda wanted something from you - she was sneaking about in your quarters - that's a big risk, blowing her cover like that. What was it she wanted? "

"The sword." Guinevere stepped out of the shadows and took her place next to her husband. The round table made her feel a little out of place: it was a symbol of Rome, and many of the empty seats were silent reminders of knights that her people had killed, but now she placed a hand upon it. "Osir… A friend," she corrected hurriedly, "said that it was important to the werewolves, that it was a mark of rank. That must be what she was looking for."

"Then we have to use it or get rid of it," Gawain said quickly. "If it's that important then Branda or one of her accomplices if she has any, will be back for it. You saw what happened with that witch's bracelet - how do we know the sword doesn't have any magic of its own?"

Guinevere looked up sharply. She was well aware of the magic that Gawain spoke of - it had killed the woman who had murdered her father after all - but she had thought the sword safe in the royal quarters. "Where is the sword now?"

"With Rowan," Lancelot replied, a sudden feeling of dread gripping his stomach and turning his blood to ice water. "In my quarters."

Gawain raised an eyebrow, but Lancelot ignored him, getting to his feet swiftly. Before he could speak, the door swung open and Tristan strode in, followed by Eadgyth the Woad scout.

"Found her tracks," he said without preamble. "She headed for the woods, to a clearing about a mile south. From the remains of the campsite she's not alone. There's bloody bandages but she's obviously not badly hurt because her tracks doubled back along with a couple of others - men from what I can tell."

"Doubled back?" Arthur asked his scout, although in his heart he already knew the answer. "Headed where?"

Tristan fixed his king with intense dark eyes. "Here."

* * *

Rowan got up, paced over to the fireplace and picked up a piece of kindling from the pile in the corner. The fire didn't really need feeding - the flames leapt fierce and bright, but she chucked it on anyway, watching as the little shard of wood was consumed. _I know how you feel, _she thought silently. Turning away, she sat back down on the bed. The blankets were still warm, both from her own and Lancelot's heat, and the memory of what had happened between them spread an involuntary warmth through her belly. _What she had done was wrong, _she told herself firmly, _and it wouldn't happen again._ Flopping back on the bed and nearly smacking her head on the wall, she let out a deep sigh. _Who was she trying to fool? If Lancelot asked her to go to him then she would, and gladly. _Her body still thrummed from his touch, the delicate skin between her legs sticky and achy, but it wasn't that that pulled her to him. It was the brief lowering of his guard, the boy behind the knight that she had glimpsed. He was like her - lost, and she would find him if he would let her, Rowan realised as though her heart were a pile of tangles that she was only now sorting out. She would do anything to make him happy. With a groan, she snuggled her head into the mattress. _She loved him. _

Rowan must have dozed off for a few moments, because the knock at the door took a moment to penetrate her brain, and she felt a brief moment of confusion as she tried to remember where she was.

"Who is it?" She called out groggily, smiling at the voice that answered her. Lucy regarded her with cross blue eyes when she opened the door, smiling at the guards that accompanied her before waving them away and walking into the chamber with a gait that reminded Rowan of the ducks that used to waddle around the pond in the village. The blonde girl caught the look and gave a short laugh.

"I know, I know, I'll try not to take up too much room, I just wanted to see if you were alright. I heard what happened."

"I'm fine." Rowan smiled as Lucy sat down on the bed with a sigh of relief. "Look, you shouldn't have come. I'm glad to see you, but it isn't safe out there."

"I know, don't worry, Tristan's got three guards looking out for me, they're outside the door right now. Of cause he didn't ask me if I'd like to be followed around," she said with an amused roll of her eyes, "but that's Tristan for you."

"You love him very much, don't you?" Rowan said quietly. She had not failed to notice the way Lucy's face softened when she spoke of Arthur's scout, despite her less than flattering words.

Lucy shrugged. "He's a moody bastard who couldn't hold a decent conversation if his life depended on it, and I'd cut my heart out for him if he asked it of me. Love." She rubbed the swell of her stomach moodily. "Arthur reckons it's a gift from his God."

"Perhaps it is," Rowan suggested, sitting down beside her friend. "He's the king, he must be very wise."

With a snort, Lucy gave Rowan a grin. "Ever seen Arthur in full battle armour?" When the dark haired girl shook her head, she laughed mischievously. "A man in a centurion's helmet looks like nothing so much as a giant cockerel. Let women run the country I say, at least we won't look like chickens when we go out to war." Lucy smiled as Rowan giggled and reached out to clasp her hand.

"Really, Rowan, are you sure you're alright? I know what it's like to be scared - you were a lot braver than I would have been in that situation I can tell you that for nothing."

Rowan smiled and squeezed the blonde girl's hand gratefully. Lucy was funny and sweet and took her mind off things. It was good to have someone to talk to. "Branda's a werewolf," she said as though repeating the fact might make it seem less strange. "She changed in front of me."

"So I've heard." Lucy gave a troubled sigh, the carefree façade that she had been trying to maintain for Rowan's sake slipping somewhat. "I should have… " She frowned. "I've seen things. Things that shouldn't been real and I've fought them too. I should have known. She just seemed so… " Lucy's voice abruptly cut off. With a yelp, she doubled over in pain.

"Lucy?" Scrambling to her feet, Rowan knelt before her friend. "Are you alright?"

"I don't know." The blonde girl's eyes were wide with fear. "That's never happened before." Regaining her breath, she closed her eyes. "It's probably just the baby kicking in an odd place." Her eyes widened as soon as the words were out of her mouth, and both she and Rowan looked down at the wet stain that slowly spread across her skirt.

"Oh, no." Lucy shook her head in denial. "Not here, not now. Rowan?" She looked up with terrified eyes.

"Stay here.. I mean sit still. It'll be alright." Rowan hurried to the door and unlocked it. "I'll get one of the guards to find Tibor." Shoving the door open, she looked around wildly. The hallway was empty. _Where were the guards? _She thought desperately. The fort was silent, most of the guards must have been called to guard the wall, she realised. The chances of coming across someone in the knights' quarters were slim, and so, scurrying back into Lancelot's room, she gave Lucy as reassuring a smile as she could muster. "Don't worry. The guards are…" _What? Gone? Vanished?_ Instead of finishing the sentence, Rowan grabbed the sword that she had taken from the King's chambers. She might not be able to wield it very well, but it was better than having no weapon at all. Lucy looked at her with frightened eyes before closing them and crying out as another contraction ripped through her, and Rowan felt her resolve harden. Lucy needed a healer and it was up to her to find one.

"I'm going to find Tibor," she said quickly. "Try and stay calm, I'll return as fast as I can."

Lucy nodded, her arms shaking as she leant back against the wall.

Closing the door behind her, Rowan hurried down the corridor. The healing rooms weren't far away, but the feeling of unease that gripped her was growing by the second. _Where were the guards? _Gripping the bulky sword tightly, she jogged down towards the stairs that led outside. The soldiers' barracks were silent and obviously empty as she passed them, and so it came as a shock when her name was suddenly shouted from nearby.

"Stay back!" Rowan cried, grabbing hold of the rough stone wall and trying to raise the sword she carried at the same time. Teetering on the edge of the steps, she righted herself with an effort and looked warily at the man who had emerged from one of the rooms. "Who's there?"

"Easy." The young man who approached her looked startled by her mistrust, and feeling a bit silly, Rowan lowered the sword. "You _are _Rowan aren't you? I've seen you serving at the tavern. I don't mean you any harm, honest."

She nodded in acknowledgement. The man before her was dressed a tunic that was worn by the lower ranking soldiers at the fort, and his youthful face showed nothing but confused compassion. She'd seen him before, Rowan realised. He'd been one of the men guarding her sister's body. Giving him a quick smile, she spoke hurriedly.

"Lucy. Lucy from the tavern is having a baby."

"So I've heard." He nodded and looked at her as though he was waiting for her to get to the point.

"No." Rowan shifted impatiently. "I mean she's having it _now."_

"Oh. _Oh." _The words suddenly seemed to register and the soldier hurried forwards, beckoning Rowan to follow him. "Tibor's out back, one of the guards was hurt down by the meadow, best that you come and explain things to him."

"Thank- you," Rowan hurried after him. "I don't know what I'd have done without you… I'm sorry, I don't even know your name."

"It's Alex." The young guard's voice was pleasant, but the sudden amber of his eyes in the moonlight was anything but, and had Rowan glanced behind her, she would have realised that it was not a pile of firewood in the shadows by the latrine they passed but the bodies of the three guards sent to protect Lucy. Their throats torn out, their eyes glassy as they stared up at the full moon high above them.

**A/N: Happy Halloween everyone! Be careful when petting werewolf puppies ; )**

(**For anyone who is confused, the bracelet that Gawain and Guinevere refer to is from the prequel to this - "Faithless". It isn't part of the plot to this story and it's all a bit complicated to go into, so suffice to say it was a magic item that helped bring about the downfall of one of Arthur's enemies. Cast list of characters is on my profile - please let me know if I've missed anyone out.) As always meany. many thanks to the kind people who reviewed the last chapter.**


	26. Chapter 26

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Lancelot got to his feet as soon as Tristan's words registered. "They're coming for the sword," he said with certainty. "Branda must know that Rowan has it."

Arthur nodded swiftly. That was the most likely reason for the werewolves' return, but they would have to exercise caution until they were sure of the enemy's attack. "Lancelot, Tristan, find Rowan and bring her and the sword back here. Galahad, you and Gawain must go to the dungeons - it is possible that they will try and free Kyrie," he said shortly, reaching for Excalibur. "Bors and I will warn the guards. If you come across one of _them _then strike without hesitation, no matter what face they wear, for they will not show mercy to you."

Galahad gave his leader a tormented look at the last order but followed Gawain out of the room without a word, swiftly followed by Tristan and Lancelot.

"And what about me, Arthur?" Guinevere looked at her husband intently. "What would you have me do?"

_Stay here, _Arthur thought silently. It wasn't an option, however - Guinevere was as skilled as his men in combat and he had no hope of keeping her out of harms way when she obviously wanted to fight.

"Come with Bors and I, you will be better at informing your people what is happening," he said after a brief pause. She nodded and picked up her bow, and not for the first time Arthur found himself envying the farmers with their obedient, gentle wives.

"Arthur?" Bors waited by the door, his face set, his normally merry dark eyes as impenetrable as pitch. The king nodded. There was work to be done, and trying to shove away the feeling of dread that had settled cold and immovable in his stomach, he followed his eldest knight out the door.

Neither Tristan or Lancelot spoke as they made their way to the knights' quarters. Running would have been foolish; giving them neither the time nor opportunity to properly watch their surroundings, but they walked swiftly, their breath steaming in the cold air, their hands resting upon the pommels of their swords. Bounding up the stairs, a woman's scream suddenly echoed from the corridor above them, and both men broke into a run.

"Rowan?" Lancelot cried, unsheathing his sword and kicking open the door to his chambers. "What.." His words died off when he took in the sight before him. It had been Lucy not Rowan that had cried out. The blonde girl sat upon his bed, her face pale and sweaty, handfuls of blanket pulled free from the mattress and clenched in her fingers. Not quite sure what to do, Lancelot let Tristan push him aside none to gently and go to the girl.

"Lucy?" The scout said gently. "It's alright."

"It's not." Lucy screwed up her face and cried out, her breath coming in sharp pants. Opening her eyes, she fixed them on Tristan almost desperately. "I'm not having the baby here. Tell it to stop. Tell it to come back tomorrow."

"I don't think that's going to happen," Lancelot murmured. Sweeping his eyes around the room he saw no sign of Rowan or the sword, and felt his stomach clench with fear. It took a moment before he realised that Tristan was speaking to him, but the swift but painful punch to his thigh cleared his thoughts abruptly.

"Tibor." The scout was as inscrutable as ever, but the paleness of his face belied his outward calm. "We have to get her to a healer."

"Yes." Lancelot ran a hand over his face and tried to remember when he had last seen Brennus' apprentice. "He'll be in the healing rooms I think." Tristan nodded and glanced at Lucy. He'd carry her if he had to, but he didn't really want to move her, and given her pained squirming, he wasn't sure if he would be able to hold on without dropping her.

"Lucy?" Lancelot bent down to the girl and tried to keep the panic out of his voice. "Where is Rowan?"

The blonde girl looked at him from beneath a veil of sweaty hair and tried to catch her breath. "Went to get help," she panted. "The guards weren't there."

_The guards weren't there._ Tristan and Lancelot exchanged glances. The scout himself had chosen the men to guard Lucy and there was no way that they would have abandoned their post unless something very bad had happened. Apparently the werewolves were further ahead of them than they had realised.

"Lancelot…" Tristan's words were quiet, but his friend understood the what he could not say in front of Lucy. _If the wolves were in the castle then they were doubtless hunting. Rowan may or may not have reached help, but surely they would have heard from her or a messenger if she had . Arthur needed to be warned, and he would need all his knights with him, especially his scout._

"If you don't we all die, Lucy as well," Lancelot said quietly. He looked over at his friend's beloved and tried in vain to think of any way of making this easier. "I'll find Tibor and bring as many guards as can be spared." _But after that you have to leave her, Tristan, _was the unspoken coda to his words as he turned and hurried out of the door, shutting the door behind him.

Taking the steps two at a time, Lancelot paused at the bottom of the staircase. Adrenaline was racing though his veins, heightening his senses and making everything around him seem sharper and brighter, but it was mixed with fear for one of the first times in his life. _Where was Rowan? Would Arthur's God really be so cruel as to let his brother's lover bring new life into the world while his own beloved was being ripped apart by monsters?_ Already knowing the answer to that and knowing that time was short, he stepped forward and would have slipped had he not grabbed the metal strut of the brazier beside him. The brass was hot, and he let go of it with a hiss of pain, but the pause gave him time to see what he might otherwise have missed. It was not merely shadow that darkened the spaces between the cobblestones. Bending down, Lancelot touched the sticky liquid that had flowed into the hallway and knew before sniffing it what it was. Blood. The trail was not hard to follow; only a few paces away the door next to the latrene where Kyrie had been found stood slightly ajar, a bloody handprint clear upon the worn wood. Approaching the door cautiously, Lancelot kicked the door open, throwing his weight back and swinging forward his sword. Nothing greeted his attack but the faint rustle of the wind through the branches of the trees at the far end of the meadow, and so carefully, he edged through the doorway and out into the meadow behind. The night was clear and cold, the moon a silent silver disc high above. Barely breathing, Lancelot paused, listening intently, using every lesson that Tristan had taught him about tracking. There was nothing. No subtle slide of metal against metal that would signal a weapon being unsheathed, no soft pad of paws upon the frosty grass. Taking a step backwards, Lancelot looked around and felt his breath catch in his throat. _The corpses were well hidden, _he thought detachedly. It was only the moonlight shining upon the open eyes of the topmost body that betrayed the location of the three men piled neatly upon each other. Stepping forward, he recognised the uniform the three wore, and more reluctantly, the features of the man sandwiched between the other unfortunate men who had met the same fate. _Galeth, _Lancelot realised. _More brawn than brain, but a good man nonetheless._

There was nothing to do be done for the dead men, and so with a last glance toward the pile of bodies, he slid back into the hallway and jogged towards the courtyard.

"Arthur!" the king's broad back was unmistakable, but the brief jolt of relief died in Lancelot's chest when he looked at the two twisted bodies that lay in the courtyard. "Branda?" he asked tightly, noting the torn throats, the glassy eyes of the guards who had obviously hadn't even had time to draw their swords before they met their death.

"Or one of her kin." Arthur's voice was flat, his jaw tense as he turned to his friend. "Where is…"

Lancelot didn't give him the opportunity to finish the sentence.

"Rowan's gone, so is the sword. Lucy is in labour and her guards are dead."

The king blinked twice before giving a half laugh. "Anything else?"

"Isn't that enough?" Lancelot could feel the battle haze rising within and forced it down with an effort. For Rowan and Lucy's sake he had to stay calm.

Arthur swore to himself and grabbed one of the guards hurrying past by his tunic collar.

"A girl is in labour, she needs the healer. Find Tibor and bring him…" He glanced at Lancelot. "Where _is L_ucy?"

"In my quarters." Lancelot raised an eyebrow at the young man who seemed too awestruck by the men speaking to him to take in any of their orders, and with a harsh sigh walked forward and grabbed him by the throat. "Find Tibor, tell him Lucy is giving birth and take him to my quarters," he said harshly. Looking around, he met Arthur's eyes. "If you want Tristan with us then you'll have to send guards too." Letting go of the soldier, he barely noticed when he scurried away.

"I'll go." Guinevere stepped away from the two guards she had been speaking with nearby, unembarrassed by having so obviously been eavesdropping upon the two men's conversation. "Eadgyth?" She barely had to raise her voice, but the Woad scout heard her and loped over from the far side of the courtyard. "Lucy might be grateful of a woman's presence, and Eadgyth is as sharp as Tristan's hawk when it comes to spotting danger," Guinevere said, unconsciously fiddling with the knives that were tucked into her belt. "We'll keep her safe."

Arthur nodded reluctantly, and gestured to Tibor who was hurrying towards them.

"Have you seen Rowan?" the young man shook his head, obviously a little bewildered at what was happening.

"I haven't seen her since this morning. What's going on?" Tibor noticed the two dead men still sprawled upon the cobblestones and made to go to them, only to be halted by Arthur's hand upon his arm.

"There's nothing you can do for them", the big Roman said quietly. "Lucy needs you - her baby is coming." Nodding at Eadgyth who stood tall ang quiet, he made his words clear to the two men. " Stay together, listen to Guinevere and avoid conflict if you can." The last words were directed at his wife. Guinevere gave a smile as swift as a heartbeat, kissed his cheek and gestured the two men to follow her. Within moments they were lost in the shadows, and Lancelot turned his attention to more pressing matters.

"Rowan's gone," he said fiercely. "The guards were left near the meadow, that must be where they've taken her."

"Lancelot.." Arthur's words choked in his throat, but the look he gave to his second in command was eloquent enough.

"She's not dead." The dark haired knight met the king's eyes steadily. "I'll find her."

"Not alone." Arthur sighed and motioned a couple of guards forward. "We need Tristan for this and back-up. Whatever Branda is she isn't stupid - she'll be expecting us to look for her."

Lancelot nodded and hurried towards the dungeons where he knew Galahad and Gawain were waiting. Arthur did not have to speak the words he had obviously bit back, the knight thought. If Rowan was still alive out there, was she still human?

* * *

"Are you sure we're going the right way?" Rowan would have slowed her pace, but the slope of the hill and Alex's pull on her wrist made it hard to check her momentum. "It's just there don't seem to be any lights down there, maybe…"

Alex did not look around, nor slow his pace, and Rowan suddenly felt very afraid. The fort was getting further away by the moment and the soldier who had seemed so friendly at first had not said a word to her since they had left Hadrian's wall. Heart pounding, Rowan tried to look around her while trying to trip over. The forest was getting closer - but if someone was hurt, as Alex had said, there would be lanterns, there would be people. Something was very wrong, and for once trusting her instincts, Rowan pretended to trip, falling heavily onto the damp grass, but being careful not to trap the sword she carried beneath her.

"Sorry," she said with a breathlessness that was not entirely feigned. "It's hard to see in such darkness."

"Is it?" Alex sounded a little confused, but when he turned his head, there was no mistaking the amber light that turned his eyes into something feral and inhuman. "I can see. I can see everything."

This time Rowan did not hesitate. Fear gave her strength and surprise gave her the advantage. Rolling onto her knees, she swung the sword she held up towards the guard's torso, only to find her arm grabbed before she made contact with his flesh.

"That's not nice." Branda's fingers closed around Rowan's wrist and wrenched her arm back, dislocating her shoulder and causing her to drop the sword with a howl of pain. "He's pretty," she smiled at Alex, "and we don't want to scar the pretty ones."

Rowan dropped to the ground, the pain in her shoulder a high pitched buzz that made everything seem far away. Panting, she reached for the sword, but was shoved back viciously by the werewolf.

"Not yours," Branda said quietly. "You've taken enough from me already." Touching her side, she nudged the tunic she wore upwards, revealing a thick bandage. "But don't worry, you'll make amends for your mistake." Leaning forwards until their faces almost touched, Branda kissed Rowan swiftly on the lips. "You're going to bring the knights to me." Getting to her feet, she took a couple of steps backwards and smiled. "And then I'm going to rip your throat out."

"I won't.." Rowan struggled to her knees, ignoring the pain in her shoulder and trying to force down her fear. "Lancel… they'll find me. They'll kill you," she snarled.

Branda snorted and looked at her contemptuously. "Shut her up, Alex." Rowan only had time to glimpse the fist that swung towards her before everything went black. "And no nibbling," Branda warned, leaving the guard to carry the woman into the forest. "I want her in one piece before we tear her apart."

A/N: Sorry for not replying to any reviews - it's been a crazy week (in seven days I have a aquired a cat, a pony, helped organise a funeral and started a new job. Thank goodness for writing, I think I would have gone insane without it). Thanks for all the feedback - I am well aware how lucky I am when it comes to my reviewers - you've helped me out so much. Sorry for yet another cliffhanger.


	27. Chapter 27

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Rowan opened her eyes slowly, taking several moments to make sense of her surroundings. She was in the forest, that much was evident, but how had she gotten there? Turning her head slightly, she caught sight of the figures silhouetted by a nearby campfire, and felt her breath catch in her throat when she remembered what had happened. Ignoring the pounding of her heart and head, both of which seemed to be in competition as to which could burst first, Rowan surreptitiously flexed her arms and legs. She bit back a cry when she jarred her injured arm, but the pain was much less than it had been before - someone had obviously put the joint back in its socket. Somehow she found it difficult to be grateful for the small mercy however. By wriggling she realised that her hands were tied tightly behind her back, but her legs were free. There werewolves obviously weren't too worried about her running off. Before she had time to look for any avenue of escape, the sound of heavy footsteps came from behind her, and she quickly shut her eyes, feigning unconsciousness.

"It's awake." The man's voice was unfamiliar, and giving up her pretence, Rowan looked up at him. He was obviously a werewolf, she realised. Even if the company he kept wasn't a dead giveaway, the inhuman light in his eyes was. Scrambling inelegantly to a sitting position, Rowan did her best to look defiant.

The werewolf watched her struggle with mild amusement.

"You've caused us a lot of trouble," he said, wagging a grubby finger at her as though she was an errant child that needed chastising. "My Branda really isn't happy with you."

"Branda's a monster," Rowan retorted, ashamed at the way her voice trembled.

He laughed and shook his head as though remembering something amusing. "Aye, well she has her moments. She's a good girl at heart though."

"A good girl?" Rowan's fear was momentarily overruled by sheer disbelief. "She kills people!"

The man shrugged and scratched idly at his mane of dirty blond hair. "You kill things when you're hungry - assuming you're not too squeamish to get someone else to do it for you. There's no difference - why should we starve?"

"People aren't like chickens… or, or cattle," she whispered. "You must know that." The man crouched beside her was big and heavily muscled, and while he was not being overtly threatening at the moment, Rowan had no doubt that were she to attempt an escape he would have absolutely no difficulty in retrieving her, especially given the fact that her hands were bound. Any further musings were cut short when the werewolf lifted his head and seemed to sniff the air, a smile spreading across his face and making him look almost handsome.

"Branda," he said with pleasure, and sure enough, a few moments later the woman emerged from the forest. Rowan watched her approach with a loathing that churned like black bile in her stomach, and from what she could read of the red head's expression, the feeling was mutual.

"Cynwulf." She walked over to the blond man and kissed him deeply before turning to the prisoner. "And how are you, Rowan?" She mocked. "I'd have thought you'd have had better sense than to follow dear Alex down here. Obviously not." Wincing as she stretched, Branda put a hand against her side. "It wasn't nice of you to stab me like that. It made things needlessly nasty."

"I should have struck higher," Rowan said with quiet determination. Terrified she might be, but by the Gods she wasn't going to tremble before Branda. She could at least try and keep her dignity before they killed her.

"And I should have snapped your neck at the earliest opportunity," Branda replied. "You and Lancelot spent so much time making calf eyes at each other that I'm surprised you even noticed what was happening. Still, it'll all work out in the end, and this way is much more fun." She draped an arm over Cynwulf's shoulders and beckoned the man sat beside the fire forward. Alex joined them, and Rowan wondered how she could have ever mistaken the man as being human. Despite the clothes they wore, the trio looked utterly feral. "Pretty boys on pretty horses looking for the wolves," Branda said dreamily. "They think that they are the hunters." With a smile she stood up. "They are angry and confused and don't have any idea what they face. But don't worry." Reaching out she patted Rowan's cheek, laughing when the girl jerked away. "I'll let Lancelot kill you when I've turned him. I'm a romantic at heart after all."

Alex grabbed Rowan's hair before she had time to form a retort, pulling her towards the campfire and dumping her unceremoniously on the ground before it.

"Thank you," Cynwulf said to the soldier with mock politeness. "Sorry to leave you to babysit, but you'll have your fun soon enough." Turning, he shed his clothing quickly, looking eagerly towards Branda who had already changed form. "And don't eat her," he said with a wink before changing shape and loping into the forest.

Branda watched them leave, noticed the glazed, hungry expression on Alex's face, and prayed to every God she had heard of that Branda's words would prove false.

* * *

"They hunt as a pack." Tristan's words were curt as he swung up onto his gelding, almost knocking over the stable boy who had held his horse. "If we split up then they'll pick us off one by one."

Arthur nodded, trying not to convey his nervousness to either the stallion that pranced beneath him, or the men that awaited his command. His knights were mounted, waiting silently for orders, but he was well aware how much depended upon them being successful in their hunt. Too many, too close to them had suffered from this new threat, and vengeance was a dangerous motive when it came to battle.

"We stay together," he said clearly to the group of waiting men and guards. "Take the wolves out with arrows if at all possible and avoid close contact if you can. You've seen what happened to Kyrie," he winced inwardly at the words, but said them anyway, "don't let it happen to you. If in doubt, shoot."

Galahad's horse shook its head and backed up when its rider's hands tightened on the reins, but he did not speak. Nor did any of the other men who followed the king over the drawbridge and into the forest.

There was a faint breeze that ruffled the leaves high above and guttered the flames of the braziers held by several guards, but for the most part the forest was silent. Searching the darkness, Lancelot flexed his fingers around his bow, worry and adrenaline tensing every muscle in his body. _Rowan was alive, _he told himself. _She had to be. _Branda liked to play games… She wouldn't kill Rowan quickly. A dozen images of what the werewolf might have done instead cavorted in a danse macabre through his head, and with difficulty Lancelot pushed them away. Tristan drew his horse up alongside him, the older man's sharp features almost hidden in the shadows, his eyes bright. Lancelot opened his mouth to speak, but the scout shook his head almost imperceptibly. Tapping one long finger on his horse's right wither, he gave his friend a meaningful glance, and Lancelot realised what Tristan was trying to tell him. They were being followed. Not daring to turn his head lest he alert their tracker, Lancelot made a show of checking his horse's girth, snatching a quick glance behind him as he did so. The wolf was well hidden, indeed it was only the brief flash of its eyes that gave away its position. Looking back at Tristan, the two men exchanged a quick nod. There was no way of letting anyone else know what was happening without scaring the attacker off, and so Lancelot pretended to fumble with the girth, undoing it and dropping sideways as though it had broken. The other men had barely time to halt their horses before the wolf was upon them. Racing towards the fallen man, its leap towards Lancelot's throat was halted by two arrows fired in quick succession, one hitting it in the throat, the other in the chest. It fell back with a choked snarl but staggered forwards once again. It's attack was slow and clumsy, and rolling to his feet Lancelot sliced into its neck, severing the wolf's head from its body.

"Lancelot…" Arthur turned his horse and watched in disbelief as his friend calmly wiped off his sword and refastened his horse's girth. The body of the slaughtered wolf was changing before his eyes, and dimly he heard a couple of the Woads that rode with them mutter something in their native language.

"There wasn't time," the dark haired knight said tersely. Swinging back into the saddle, he glanced down at the man he had slain. It wasn't anyone he recognised. The hair was long and blonde, the features unfamiliar. "Do you recognise him?"

"No." Arthur said curtly, torn between wanting to shake Lancelot for going against his orders for the thousandth time, and worry at who else might be watching them. Asking the same question to the rest of the group provided no clues to the man's identity either, and Arthur felt the knot of worry in his stomach twist and grow. If the wolf was not from the fort then he was likely one of Branda's packmates - if they had missed one werewolf then how many others might yet be out there?

He did not have to wonder long. With a snarl that was almost a scream, a wolf bounded from behind them, leaping on to the rump of one of the soldier's horses and ripping out the man's throat before anyone had time to stop it. Dodging the flurry of arrows aimed towards it, the wolf instead raced under the horses, sending the mounts into a blind panic, before fleeing down the path. Barely managing to control his stallion, Arthur led the charge after it, the knights and soldiers following close behind . Galloping around a corner, Arthur ducked to avoid a low hanging branch and saw the trap that awaited them too late. The waiting tripwire caught his horse just below the knee, sending it crashing to the ground. Throwing himself sideways, he managed to roll clear of the animal, but the rest of horses were upon him before he had time to shout a warning. Tucking himself into a ball, he heard a sickening crack as Lancelot's horse somersaulted to the ground, breaking its neck in the process. For several seconds that seemed like years, the air was filled with shouts of fear and surprise, the sound of falling bodies and the screaming of terrified horses, then something hit him on the back of the head and everything went black.

Xxxxx

It took a moment for the world to stop spinning, before Lancelot realised their predicament. The body of his horse pinned him to the floor, but with an effort he managed to struggle free and get to his feet. Every part of his body protested the movement, but taking a deep breath , he felt fairly sure that nothing was broken. The same could not be said for many of the men he had been riding with.

"Lancelot?" Gawain stepped beside him. The blonde knight's hair was matted with blood from a gash on his forehead, but seemed otherwise unharmed. "Are you hurt?"

Lancelot shook his head and turned his attention to the carnage around them . Several horses lay in the narrow path obviously killed outright, a couple more struggled on the ground, tangled in each others bridles, while most of the others appeared to have bolted. Hurrying over to the trapped horses, Lancelot swiftly cut them free and tried to pull one away from the man who was pinned beneath it. His heart sank when he saw the condition of the Woad's body. His horse had crushed him in it's struggle to be free. Feeling panic bloom in his chest, he looked around frantically for his fellow knights. Galahad was being helped to his feet by Gawain. The young knight was bent over in pain, but he was nonetheless standing, as was Tristan who was checking the bodies of two men - either dead or unconscious. A gruff torrent of swearwords broke the tense silence, and Lancelot felt a sick mixture of relief and worry when he saw Bors try and fail to get to his feet. Beneath it all the same cold refrain repeated itself in his mind. _Where was Arthur?_

A whinny of pain and fear caught his attention, and Lancelot moved towards the king's stallion. He noted the horse's dangling foreleg and bit back a surge of nausea. He would deal with the animal once he had found his friend. Arthur was not hard to find. Curled on the ground he lay still, the trickle of blood the only colour in a face as pale as death. On suddenly wobbly legs, Lancelot staggered forward and fell to his knees, searching for a pulse with shaking fingers. For a moment he found nothing and he felt his world shift on its axis, but then a faint flutter twitched beneath the skin and he let go of the breath he hadn't known he had been holding.

"Is he?" Tristan's voice was low, but for the first time in Lancelot's memory he sounded genuinely afraid.

"He's alive." Turning, he met the scouts eyes and did not have to say anything more. They might not have lost their king or friends, but there was no question that they were in very big trouble indeed.


	28. Chapter 28

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

"Move the dead to one side of the path," Lancelot called out. Hoisting Arthur's limp form over his shoulder, he moved the big man over to a tangle of bracken and carefully laid him down. "Bring the injured over here."

Tristan nodded, dragging the bodies of two slain soldiers into the trees, and refusing help from Galahad, Gawain dragged the body of one of the Woads to join it, muttering a brief blessing that he half remembered from Samartia. The bodies of the horses would have to stay there for the time being, Lancelot decided, feeling a pang of sorrow as he glanced at the body of his gelding. It would take too much time and effort to move them, and time was one thing they did not have.

"We have to go back." Gawain's blue eyes were dark with worry, every muscle in his body tense. "Bors has a broken leg, Galahad only cracked ribs if he's lucky, but if he isn't…" The unspoken fear hung heavily between them. Both had seen men die of internal injuries; their skin unbroken, their deaths slow and agonising. "Arthur is.." Gawain dragged his eyes from the still form of his commander. "If we stay here they'll pick us off one by one."

"And how do you propose we take them back?" Lancelot replied. His voice was steady, but his dark eyes rested only briefly upon his fellow knight before he turned his attention back to the silent forest.

"The horses that aren't dead are gone." Out of the corner of his eye he saw Tristan approach Arthur's wounded stallion with soft words and a sharp blade, and tried not to flinch when it collapsed to the ground without a sound. "You can't move until daylight. Even without the wolves the path is treacherous - sit tight, stay awake and keep your bows strung taut. Come morning there will be soldiers sent out to find you."

"Find _you?" _Gawain shook his head in denial. "You mean _us, _don't you?"

Lancelot hesitated, picking up one of the braziers that had been dropped by a dead soldier. The fire flickered and struggled against the damp ground, but once he hoisted it up, the flame burned true.

"I won't leave her out there," he said quietly. "You have weapons, you know how to protect yourselves."

"Lancelot…" The blond knight hesitated for a moment. Tristan was helping Bors over to the side of the path, the big man grunting in pain, Galahad watching them both with tired eyes. "I'll keep them safe."

It was as near a blessing as he could hope to have and probably more than he deserved, Lancelot thought as he jogged into the darkness. Rowan was out there somewhere, and he would find her if he could - save her if he could. His stomach twisted when he thought of Tristan putting Arthur's horse out of its misery. Would he have to do the same to Rowan?

* * *

Rowan watched the firelight flicker and did her best to relax against the log she had been dumped unceremoniously against. Alex, her guard, was preoccupied by the dead squirrel he had found and was peeling its flesh away from the bones, but she had no doubt that any sudden movements would bring his attention back to her, and that was one thing that she did not want.

The rope that bound her wrists was thick and tight, the wood against her soft, but something sharp protruded from the old bark, and Rowan was determined to use it to her advantage. _An old arrow head?_ she wondered. Perhaps that or the remains of a trap that had been abandoned. For the moment it didn't matter, and she dared not look behind her to check. Rubbing her bindings against it, she pretended to cry quietly, hoping that the noise would muffle the sound of tearing rope, and pulled harder when Alex seemed to take no notice of what she was doing. The rope tore gradually but eventually gave enough for Rowan to wriggle one hand free and then untangle the other. Resting her head on her knees as though she were exhausted by fear, she studied her surroundings. She was relieved of her bonds but far from safe. Alex was crazy but he obeyed Branda, and since Branda had ordered him to keep her here, there wouldn't be anything to be gained by trying to reason with him. The forest was close and dark enough to provide shelter if she had a good enough head start, but Rowan rejected the idea reluctantly. Even if she took him by surprise, he had the advantage. Even if she didn't give away her position by her clumsiness, he would most likely be able to detect her scent, and they were too far away from the fort for any cries for help to be heard. _Was Lancelot out there somewhere?_ she wondered. _Was he perhaps looking for her? Branda seemed to think so. _The shiver of fear that slithered down her spine perversely hardened her resolve.

With a yelp, Rowan fell back against the log she had been bound to, rolling her eyes back and coughing up as much spittle as she could muster from her dry throat. Stiffening her muscles, she shuddered, her heels kicking dark swathes through the fallen leaves, before she collapsed.

Alex looked at the flailing woman with a confusion that swiftly turned to fear when she slumped against the tree she had been bound to. Branda wanted the girl alive, and Branda would be cross if her toy had died when he was supposed to have been watching over her. Wiping his mouth free of the squirrel blood that stained it, he approached Rowan's limp form. Her dress was rucked up, showing a pale expanse of calf, her throat curved and vulnerable in the moonlight. Alex closed his eyes, forcing down his hunger. _Just a taste, just a taste, just a taste…_ He forced the thoughts away with difficulty. Rowan was Branda's and she had told him to leave her alone. Nevertheless he could not resist rubbing his cheek against the soft skin of her leg, quivering with delight as he heard the fast thump of her heartbeat. _Too fast.. _Before he had time to raise his head, Rowan brought her knees up swiftly, hitting him sharply beneath the jaw. Throwing herself forwards, she managed to tumble Alex onto his back, her hand searching for the sword that hung at his side. He recovered far more quickly than she had anticipated; tossing her sideways as though she weighed nothing, it was only luck that prevented his hand from gaining purchase on her throat. Instead, Rowan rolled away, and in trying to push the soldier away managed to snag the pommel of his sword. The blade was long and did not come loose. Unwilling to let go of her only weapon and suddenly realising that she had made a terrible mistake, Rowan nevertheless did her best to fight. Kicking and punching as best she could, she tried to squirm away, but Alex knocked away her feeble blows and grabbed her wrists.

"Not supposed to do that," he said quietly. His sharp hearing registering someone's approach, he raised his head. "Branda?"

The was no answer, only a hiss and thud as a sword cartwheeled through the air before slicing into Alex's neck.

Rowan blinked in disbelief as the guard flopped limply on top of her, his eyes rolling back into his head.

Lancelot grabbed her by the back of her dress, pulling her free of the dead werewolf. With his other hand he retrieved the sword he had thrown and decapitated Alex with a swift strike of the blade.

"Are you alright?"

Rowan watched as Alex's head rolled down the gentle slope and came to rest against the log that she had been bound to only moments before. Looking up at Lancelot with wide eyes she found herself completely lost for words.

"Did he bite you?" Lancelot's hand tightened painfully on her arm, and regaining some of her wits, Rowan shook her head.

"No." Seeing his dark eyes narrow, she shoved up her sleeves. "Look. Branda wouldn't let him touch me. She wants…" The memory of what the werewolf had promised made her stumble over her words. "She wants you as part of her pack or whatever it is. I'm more sort of… food."

"Food." Lancelot gave a disbelieving sigh. "I should have gone back to Samartia," he muttered to himself.

"Where are the rest of the knights?" Rowan asked, realising that they seemed to be quite alone. "Are they near?"

"Near enough," he replied. "But not much help at present. Branda provided a couple of surprises that we didn't expect. We're stuck here until morning I'm afraid; it's only luck that I found you at all. The werewolf was careless lighting a fire like that."

"Branda isn't careless," Rowan said quietly. Her nerves already strung tight, quivered like bow strings, and suddenly afraid, she grabbed Lancelot's hand. "She knows better than this, she wants to watch," she whispered.

"Watch…" Lancelot caught Rowan's eye and realised what she meant. The girl beside him trembled, her skin was pale, but her eyes were steady and intelligent. For a brief moment he wondered why he had ever wanted to kiss anyone else's lips.

"There's two of them." Stepping forward, Rowan placed a hand on Lancelot's shoulder. "Branda has a er.. Man. Wolf." She had to raise up on tiptoes to whisper to him, closing her eyes as his curls tickled her forehead and forcing herself not to curl against him when he placed a hand against her waist. "They hunt together."

"Big man with blond hair?" Lancelot asked softly, nuzzling her neck and caressing her side.

"Yes." The word was a shaky sigh, and Rowan tried to pull herself together. If Branda was watching them, and given what the werewolf had said about following them before it seemed quite possible, she needed to have her wits about her. No matter that she wanted to kiss the life out of Lancelot for coming to find her.

"He's dead." Lancelot suddenly stiffened, and disentangled himself from Rowan, pushing her behind him.

Branda walked out of the darkness, her naked skin ivory in the light of the fire, her pretty face almost incandescent with hatred. She paused, unashamed of her nudity, her eyes flicking between the knight and the woman beside him.

"Think you can…" She stumbled over her words, shaking her head as though trying to dislodge them from her mind. "Was you that killed my Cynwulf," Branda said eventually. "Was you that killed my love."

"You don't know what love is," Rowan snarled, shaking off Lancelot's hand. "What about the people that you killed? What about Kyrie?"

Branda shook her head, her dark hair covering her face. The light seemed to be dying from her eyes, her movements becoming tentative and almost awkward. Stepping sideways, she stumbled and fell to her knees, holding her hands out to the fire as though she wasn't quite sure if they belonged to her. What have you done?" she whispered. "What am I?"

"Stay here," Lancelot said firmly when Rowan made to go forward. "The bitch'll say anything."

Rowan heeded his words, but she wasn't so sure that he was right. Branda seemed diminished somehow. There was none of the sleek self confidence that had set her apart, her eyes were dull and confused.

"Branda." Lancelot's dark eyes were merciless as he unsheathed his swords and held them to the young woman's neck. "I can make this fast, but only if you tell me how many of your kind are out there."

"Kill the sire, free the pup," she whispered. "I don't want this, turn me back." Shivering, she turned pleading eyes up to the man who held her life in his hands. "I'm not like you. I'm not."

"The animal I killed was your sire?" Lancelot looked down at the woman in confusion. Branda had been terrifying both in human and wolf form, but now he could not help but feel a shiver of pity for her. Whatever she might have been in the past it was clear that she was human now, or as human as someone as clearly unbalanced as she was could be.

"Lancelot." Rowan's voice was soft as she stepped beside him and put a small hand over his, moving the blade of his sword away from the woman's neck. "Don't."

Branda watched them both, a faint half smile twitching the corners of her mouth.

"I had that once," she said softly. "Only _my_ love found my heart with his teeth and not his kisses." Swinging her weight back onto her heels, she threw herself forwards and impaled herself upon Lancelot's sword, the blade slicing cleanly through her neck. Rowan yelped, her hands rising quickly to cover her mouth. The knight kept his composure, but his hand shook a little as he freed his sword from the body of the young woman. Wiping the blade clean with his tunic, he stepped away from the body. Branda's fell limply to the ground, her limbs a graceless tangle, her eyes as blank and sightless as the dark sky above.

**A/N: Hmm well I'm fairly sure that this chapter won't go down too well, but meh - you can tell me off if you hate it. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter (thanks Princess Myra and chloedancer - I felt very bad about the horses too since I have two of my own). Sorry, No MP in this chapter Jessica, but I will try in the next one ;)**


	29. Chapter 29

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

Rowan yelped and stepped back involuntarily as Branda's body crumpled to the ground. Expecting violence, tricks or hatred, she found herself unable to tear her eyes from the dead woman. Branda hadn't even tried to fight them. Lancelot nudged her backward before kneeling beside the body, but both knew that the gesture was a mere formality; there would be no pulse when he rested his fingers above the wound in her neck.

"I don't understand." Getting to his feet with a wince, Lancelot stared down at Branda in confusion. "If she wanted to die we could have killed her a dozen times before."

"She wasn't human then." Taking a couple of steps forward, Rowan bent and closed Branda's eyes. There was nothing to cover the body with, but she crossed the limp arms over the corpse's naked chest. She had hated the woman in life, but the dead deserved whatever dignity could be afforded them. Lancelot looked at her quizzically, and Rowan shrugged. "I don't know… I mean I'm not sure. But did you hear what she said? "Kill the sire, free the pup." You said that you'd killed the other werewolf. What if he was the one who turned her into a monster?"

"By killing him, we made her human again?" Lancelot asked slowly. He dragged his eyes away from Rowan's body. Whatever information she could have given them had died with her. "It would explain why she wanted to die - ripping apart children isn't the sort of memory that would be easy to live with."

"No." Rowan got to her feet and moved beside the knight. A little too shy to take his hand, she settled for being close enough to feel his warmth. Lancelot had none of her reticence; pulling her close, he dropped a kiss on the top of her head, before entangling her fingers in his. Blushing, Rowan let him lead her towards the forest.

"You didn't come out here alone did you?" Realising that they were the only living souls in the glade, Rowan scanned the surrounding woodland but saw no sign of soldiers or the other knights. Confused, she looked up at Lancelot and saw his expression harden.

"The others are waiting for us. We were ambushed, some of the men were hurt." His words were short and well controlled, obviously not inviting further comment, so Rowan stifled the torrent of questions that roiled within her, and instead tried to keep up with him.

They walked for perhaps half a mile by Rowan's guess. The brazier that Lancelot had retrieved from beside the fire flickered out after only a few minutes, and so their progress was slow and hesitant. More than once Rowan stumbled over tree roots only to be caught by Lancelot before she fell. She could not think of anything to say and Lancelot was obviously too worried about his brothers to make small talk, so the sound of far away voices was easy to make out as they hurried through the quiet forest.

"Lancelot." Tristan stepped out of the darkness so swiftly that Rowan yelped and would have fallen backwards into a bramble bush had Lancelot not had hold of her hand. "Is she…"

The scout's words tailed off, but even Rowan understood their meaning, and she was well aware that the arrow he had notched did not waver from its aim at her chest.

"She's not bitten." Lancelot reached out and pushed Tristan's bow down. "Branda's dead, so is the soldier she turned. How's Arthur?"

"Awake." Tristan turned, slinging his bow over his shoulder. "He's not happy with you."

"He never is," Lancelot muttered, however a brief smile of relief crossed his face, and Rowan could not help but return it when he squeezed her hand. "Might as well get the bollocking over and done with."

It took them only a moment to find the king and his knights. Wincing in horror when she saw the twisted bodies of several horses, Rowan tried to smile at Gawain and Galahad who seemed to be engaged in some sort of argument. The blond obviously emerged the victor - threatening something that made her blush if the younger knight didn't sit down and rest, but she turned her attention to the king who sat against one of the trees that lined the path. Not wanting to get in the way, she let go of Lancelot's hand and walked over to Bors. The big knight was slumped near Galahad and Gawain, one leg sticking out stiffly where it had been bound to a rough splint.

"Hello," she said tentatively, before finding herself lost for anything else to say. _Are you alright?_ wasn't appropriate, neither was a polite comment on the weather. Bors gave a half smile and mercifully prevented her having to continue.

"Gods girl, you look terrible."

"You don't look too good yourself," she replied, sitting down next to him. "Anyway, you should see the other girl."

"Branda's dead?" His dark eyes studied her intently, and Rowan nodded in conformation, putting a hand on his shoulder when Bors let out a deep breath and dropped his head.

"I know it won't bring your son back, but she can't hurt anyone else now." The words sounded hollow even to her own ears, but he nodded and patted her hand absently.

"That's one blessing I suppose," he said gruffly. "Won't come as much consolation to Kyrie though I'd wager."

_Kyrie._ Rowan rocked back on her heels, suddenly feeling cold. She hadn't had time to think much about her friend's predicament, but now she felt the first stirrings of hope creep upon her. Branda had become human when her sire was killed, and now Branda was dead. Didn't it stand to reason that Kyrie might have changed back when the woman who had bitten her died? Glancing over at Galahad who sat wearily watching Lancelot and Arthur, she resisted the urge to go and tell him of her thoughts. She had no real proof and it would be cruel to raise his hopes if she turned out to be wrong. Shivering slightly, Rowan tucked her arms around herself and tried to ignore the small pile of dead bodies that lay on the other side of the path. From the looks of things they wouldn't be moving until it got light, and she wondered uneasily what was happening at the fort. Had Lucy had her baby yet? Tristan stood nearby, keen eyes scanning the forest around them, but noting the way he almost seemed to hum with nervous energy, she could not pluck up the courage to speak to him. The scout was intimidating at the best of times, battle ready and obviously tense, he was almost more frightening than the werewolves. Instead, she got to her feet and walked over to Gawain. He looked tired, his hair matted with blood, but his eyes were kind when they turned towards her.

"Rowan," he said smiling at her. "I'm not sure that I should get too close to you - killing that Saxon and now werewolves, you'll be after my job soon."

Wrinkling her nose, Rowan sat down when Gawain offered her a discarded cloak to sit upon. "The first one was an accident, and I didn't kill any werewolves. Lancelot killed Alex and Branda killed herself. I'll stick to sewing thanks all the same."

"A wise choice." Gawain rubbed his head and glared at Galahad when the younger man made to get up. "You can start with stitching up Galahad when we get home, assuming you can keep him still enough to do so."

"I'm fine." Galahad said shortly. "The sooner we get out of this cursed forest the better."

He didn't look fine at all, Rowan thought to herself. His tunic was stained with blood and he sat awkwardly, as though merely sitting hurt him. She flicked a glance at Gawain indicating his friend, but the older knight shook his head.

"Leave him be for the moment," he said quietly. "I've done what I can, the rest will wait."

Rowan nodded and moved her eyes away from Galahad who made to attempt at hiding his irritation at being discussed as though he was not there.

"Is there any news of Lucy?" She asked hopefully. "I was trying to get help when.." she shrugged. "You know when I so cleverly followed a werewolf to what should have been my death."

"You weren't to know." Gawain patted her on the shoulder. "When we left she was in labour. She's not alone - Tibor's with her and Llynya too most likely."

"She's strong," Rowan said quietly, more to reassure herself than to answer him.

"That she is." Gawain sighed tiredly, and watched as Lancelot approached them. "All the same, I'd stay away from Tristan. His usual sunny temper isn't improved when he's worried." Rowan nodded and gave Lancelot a smile when he sat down next to her.

"Was Arthur pleased to hear about the werewolves?" she asked curiously.

Lancelot raised a dark eyebrow and pulled her close to him.

"Arthur's a Roman," he said with a sigh. "I imagine he'll be pleased after he's spent a few hours on his knees praying to his God and spent a few days beating himself up for not having prevented the whole thing in the first place."

Rowan stifled a giggle and snuggled against him, blushing when she saw Gawain's smirk before deciding she didn't really care. "He's a good king," she said decisively. "And he's definitely not like most of the Romans I've met before. Perhaps Guinevere will make him feel better."

"No doubt," Lancelot said dryly. "Although let's hope she's gentler in the bedroom than she is on the battlefield."

Gawain snorted with laughter, Galahad rolled his eyes, and Rowan shook her head in disbelief before resting her head against Lancelot's chest. Worry for Kyrie and Lucy gnawed at her, but exhaustion was stronger, and it was not long before she fell asleep, lulled by the steady beat of Lancelot's heart.

* * *

Llynya paced restlessly along the battlements, squinting against the brightness of the rising sun until everything went blurry and she was forced to shut her eyes until the after image went away. Lark watched her with mild interest, but aside from the dog she was alone. Finally pausing, she rested an arm on the wall and kept her eyes on the dark expanse of forest that was yet to reveal the secret of what had happened to the men who had ventured into it last night. Her limbs were heavy with weariness, her clothing stained with blood from Lucy's labour, and she was well aware that she must look like a complete mess, but she could not bring herself to go home and clean up. Gawain was out there, so were her friends, and so she stood waiting and watching. Too scared to think of the worst, but not too tired to pray. Three of the knights' horses had clattered into the fort late that night, one of them Gawains. All had been terrified, some of them bloodstained, and the fort now hummed with barely controlled panic. Soldiers had been sent out, as had several carts that were to be used to carry the wounded. _Or the dead,_ Llynya thought sickly.

It was Lark who saw them first. Getting to her feet and stretching voluptuously, the dog gave a short bark, bouncing up on her hind legs and peering over the castle wall. Llynya looked at the dog with surprise before turning her attention back to the forest. Sure enough the two carts that had been sent out at first light were returning, as were the soldiers that had accompanied them. Beyond that she couldn't see much else, although she noted with a sinking heart, none of the remaining knights' steeds seemed to be with them. Bounding down the stairs, she forgot her exhaustion, joining the throng of people who gathered in the courtyard waiting for news. A ripple of shock shivered through the crowd when the carts made their way inside. Several bodies lay uncovered on the bed of one of them, but a shout of joy that came from behind her indicated that all was not lost. Vanora streaked past, her hair a red banner flying behind her. Scrambling up beside Bors, she kissed her husband, tears flooding down her cheeks. Guinevere was a little more restrained, although just as relieved. Jumping on to the cart gracefully, she kissed Arthur on the cheek and took his hand. Llynya watched them and was glad, but her chest was tight. _Where was Gawain?_ It took a moment to locate him. A flash of golden hair in the morning sun, and she was running before she realised she was doing so. He was helping Galahad off one of the soldier's horses, but at her cry he turned and grabbed her before she knocked them both over.

"You're all bloody," she blurted, trying to look at him properly while kissing him and keeping an eye on Galahad simultaneously. "Hang on." Wriggling out of Gawain's grasp, she gave a relieved giggle and grabbed Galahad when he looked like he was going to fall over. "Sit," she said distractedly, settling him on the ground next to Lark who licked his cheek.

"I'm fine," Gawain said, anticipating his wife's question. "Where's Lucy?"

"Lucy.." Glancing behind her, Llynya met Tristan's eyes and gave him a gentle smile. "She's in Lancelot's room," she said quietly. Anything else she might have said was lost in the wind as Tristan strode towards the knights' quarters, scattering well wishers and concerned soldiers alike. Taking the stairs two at a time, he grabbed Tibor by the scruff of the neck and pulled him aside when the healer made to speak, and kicked open the door to Lancelot's chambers.

Lucy lay in the bed, her hair dark with sweat, almost cross eyed with exhaustion, and Tristan froze at the sight of her. On her chest lay a tiny bundle and watching with awed fascination, he felt his breath catch when a tiny hand emerged from it and tangled its fingers into its mothers blanket.

"If she inherits your manners, I'm probably going to strangle her before she becomes a teenager," Lucy said tiredly. "Come and meet your daughter," she added softly when the scout showed no sign of moving. Almost dazedly, Tristan walked over to Lucy, dropping a kiss on her forehead and looking down in wonder at the child in her arms.

"Are you.. Is she…" Reaching out, he touched a finger to her tiny cheek.

"We're fine." Lucy smiled and looked up at him, raising her head when he bent to kiss her. "Next time you can give birth though. It's only fair."

"As you wish." Sitting down he stroked Lucy's hair when she laid her head on his lap and watched as both his lover and his daughter fell asleep.

**A/N: Soppyness lol, but I think Tris deserves a little after all that's happened. Thanks everyone who reviewed the last chapter, I hope this one wasn't too confusing. Hmm not long to go now - I have to admit I'll be a bit sad saying goodbye to my girls (and their knights of course!).**


	30. Chapter 30

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

**Warning: This chapter has some smut in it. Usual drill applies - if you don't like that sort of thing then PM or email me (info on my profile page) and I'll send you a pg version.**

If he had had the energy he would have been envious, Galahad thought numbly. Tristan might have knocked half a dozen people over as he raced to find Lucy, but the radiant smile on Llynya's face was reassurance enough that things had gone well for the girl and her babe. Getting to his feet, he managed to slip away before Llynya tried to stop him, and made his way towards the dungeons. His ribs hurt with each breath, but in a twisted way he welcomed the pain. It kept him from paying too much attention to sobbing women who covered the bodies of the soldiers and Woads who had been killed in the forest, and it stopped him from thinking about Kyrie. Branda was dead, her pack was dead, and running his hand over the pommel of his sword, he knew what he had to do as though some scholar had written it down in one of Arthur's books long before either of them were born.

"Don't." The voice behind him was soft and feminine, the hand upon his arm light but strong. Turning in surprise, Galahad watched as Guinevere let go of him and took several paces forward. "You won't need that," she said, nodding at his sword. "Come and see." Without saying anything further, she walked forward swiftly, checking her pace when the young knight was unable to match it. Together they walked towards the dungeons, Guinevere slipping through the crowd like a minnow, pulling her friend with her. Glaring at the guards who guarded the cells, the queen nodded for them to step away, before turning to Galahad. "Here." With a gentle smile, she pressed a large key into his hand. "She's waiting for you."

Galahad closed his fingers over the gift instinctually, but he could not bring himself to return Guinevere's smile. She was being kind, that he understood and appreciated, being allowed to end his lover's life in privacy was a bitersweet gift, but it did nothing to alleviate the churning despair that snagged at his heart and twisted his stomach. Descending the stairs down into the dungeon, he blinked as his eyes adjusted to the darkness. The other cells were empty, only Kyrie's lit with two braziers that guttered in the damp hallway and threw ghostlike shadows upon the walls.

"Galahad?" Kyrie spoke before he could make out her form in the dark cell. Stepping up to the bars, she melted out of the shadows, her brown eyes huge in her pale face. "What are… Gods are you alright?" She paced sideways, trying to get closer to him. "What happened? Are you hurt?"

Expecting to be met with mindless snarling, Galahad could only watch her in shock. There was nothing of the creature he had left slamming itself against its prison the day before. The girl in the cell was battered and bruised, but her eyes were clear. He would have known her anywhere.

"Kyrie?"

She paused and looked at him as though he were mad.

"Don't you know me?" She asked softly. "Please… I woke up not long ago - I don't know what happened. Did I do something wrong? I can't remember, I dreamed of such horrible things…"

Galahad watched her in utter confusion, hope and terror warring within him. Finally, he pushed up his sleeve and swinging loose his sword, cut his forearm so that blood trickled thick and bright down his pale skin. Gripping one of the bars to the cell, he made sure that Kyrie could see it, could smell it, and if she had the will to do so, taste it. If anything had the power to turn her then this would be it, he thought, but instead she looked at him with utter horror.

"What are you doing? Stop it!" Rushing forward, she panicked, and instead hurried to the door, screaming for the guards. Galahad grabbed her arm easily, pulling her against the bars and feeling the first warm rush of hope.

"Don't," Kyrie begged, almost hysterically. "Whatever has happened, it doesn't matter. Please, Galahad, nothing's worth your life."

"I'm not trying to kill myself," Galahad replied, a grin that was wholly inappropriate given the circumstances spreading over his face. With trembling hands he unlocked the door to the cell, setting her free.

"What in the name of the Gods are you trying to do?" Kyrie demanded, tears rolling down her cheeks. Looking around for some sort of cloth to use as a bandage, she looked at her torn and bloody clothing with confusion before tearing a strip off her skirt and wrapping it around his arm.

He let her tend him before lifting a hand to her chin and nudging up her head.

"I thought I'd lost you," he said softly.

"Lost me?" Kyrie looked utterly confused. "I love you, where would I go?"

"Nowhere." Dropping his head, he caught her lips with his and kissed her thoroughly, stifling a wince when she brought her arms to cling to his waist. Kyrie was not fooled however. Drawing back, she shoved up his tunic and ran clever fingers over the bruised skin, muttering a curse under her breath.

"Idiot," she scolded, half worried, half afraid. "You're hurt." Eyeing the makeshift bandage around his arm, she amended the statement. "Hurt more. I'll find Tibor - you should be in bed."

"Will you join me there?" Galahad felt giddy with relief as he stroked a hand over Kyrie's tangled hair. "I missed you."

She looked at him solemnly. "You'll go to bed, you'll be seen by the healer, and then if you are lucky I'll bring you something to eat." Taking his hand, she led him up the stairs into the light. Galahad paused before they reached the gate to the courtyard, bringing Kyrie to a halt.

"What if I asked you to marry me, Kyrie?" he asked. "What if I told you that I loved you beyond distraction and wanted nothing more in this world than for us to start a family."

Kyrie froze and did not look around at him.

"I would say that your timing is terrible," she said eventually. "I would say that pretty words do not disguise the fact that you are obviously not in your right mind, and from the looks of things neither am I." She looked back at him and smiled softly. "I would tell you to ask me again when you know what you are saying."

Galahad nodded ruefully. "You're probably right as usual." Entwining his fingers in hers, he couldn't help but push her a little. "But you have said nothing of love, Kyrie."

She huffed in annoyance. "I've loved you since you took me to Arthur's baths and made a complete idiot of yourself."

"I was being a gentleman," Galahad protested. Pain and weariness were depleting the last of his strength, and he rested gratefully against the slender girl when she put an arm around his waist to steady him.

"You blushed so hard you could have heated the water with the flush upon your cheeks," she whispered softly, helping him out into the sunlight. "I loved you then, I love you now. Let me look after you." He looked down at her, saw the truth in her eyes, and kissing her on the forehead, let her lead him to his quarters.

* * *

"Oh." Rowan let out a sigh when she saw Kyrie and Galahad walk past. A giddy feeling of euphoria made her giggle, earning her a sharp look from several people who were waiting for news with solemn faces. "Sorry," she muttered, trying and failing to look contrite. That was Kyrie with Galahad. _Kyrie,_ not some monster that had taken her form. Her suspicions had been correct. Branda had turned her, and with Branda's death Kyrie had been freed, she realised with wonder. Watching the pair walk towards the knights' quarters, she fought back the urge to follow them, and instead smiled at Lancelot when he made his way towards her, sliding deftly through the throng of people that surrounded them.

He looked tired, she thought. The usual confident swagger that marked his steps was gone, the shadows beneath his eyes dark, betraying the exhaustion that he was obviously not willing to admit to. Something sharp and clear shivered within her when he met her gaze, and she fought back the urge to throw her arms around him in full view of the crowd. "Kyrie's alright", she said before he had a chance to speak. "She's… I mean she's herself again."

Lancelot nodded. "Guinevere told me. Lucy's had a daughter, before you ask. Both of them are fine."

"A daughter?" Rowan gave a slow smile. "But that's wonderful! Can I see her?"

"Later," he replied wearily. "Tristan's with her at the moment and I've fought enough for one day. Let them settle."

"You're right." Rowan glanced over at Arthur who stood shakily upon one of the carts and was obviously about to make a speech. Guinevere, sitting quietly beside him, met her eyes and grinned, none to subtly nodding towards the knights' quarters, and taking her advice and quite a lot of liberties, Rowan grabbed Lancelot's hand and tugged him away from the crowd.

"Rowan?" Lancelot looked surprised, but followed the dark haired girl willingly. With her brow furrowed and her eyes determinedly not looking at him, she led him up the stairs to her chambers, barely glancing at Tibor who stood outside Lancelot's chambers with a very disgruntled look upon his face. Pushing open the door to her room, she walked inside, settled Lancelot onto the bed and closed the door, before realising that she had absolutely no idea what to do next. Leaning against the wall, she felt horribly self conscious. Shoving her hair over her shoulder, she tried not to watch as a leaf fluttered to the ground, and instead walked over to the fire and tossed a log onto the flickering embers. The tinder caught, unbalanced, rolled off, and would have caught her skirt alight if Lancelot hadn't grabbed her and pulled her out of the way.

"Calm down," he said quietly. Nudging her back to sit on the bed, he retrieved the errant log and put it back in the fireplace with the tongs that rested against the wall. To Rowan's chagrin the fire blazed brightly for a moment before settling to a steady warmth, and feeling like a complete idiot, she turned her attention to the door. It had taken three steps to walk inside, but running out of it would probably take less, she thought miserably.

"Rowan?" The dip of the bed beside her, indicated that Lancelot had sat down, but she did not look at him. "If you brought me here to tend the fire then my job is done. Do you wish me to leave?"

She gave him a sideways glance, but there was none of the mocking humour that she had grown accustomed to in his expression. Instead he watched her quietly, intently. Dragging her eyes away, Rowan shook her head.

"I didn't bring you here to tend the fire," she said softly. Fixing her gaze on the flagstones she gathered whatever was left of her courage. "I wanted to be with you. I'm sorry, you must have girls falling in love with you all the time - I really didn't mean to." Shoving her hair over her shoulder in exasperation, she winced when her fingers caught in the tangles and felt hopelessly stupid. "You should probably go," she said hastily, " I mean you're probably tired after everything."

"Lucy, her babe and Tristan are in my room," Lancelot said slowly. "Do you want to ask them to leave?"

_Oh Gods. _Rowan tucked her head into her hands and took a deep breath. "Please, Lancelot.."

She didn't have time to finish the sentence. Leaning over he picked her up before she had time to think about wriggling away, planting her squarely on his lap and kissing her before she could protest. His hands slid down her back, his mouth gentle and teasing. With a whimper, Rowan broke away from the kiss and let him rest his forehead against hers.

"Tell me again," he whispered, dark eyes intent. "Tell me that you love me."

She swallowed hard. His hands gripped her arms almost painfully, his gaze left her nowhere to hide, no chance to think of a lie that might provide a less compromising promise.

"You," she whispered brokenly. "I love only you."

At her words, he pushed her back against the bed, no longer hesitant or gentle. He kissed her as though she were the only thing in the world worth holding onto, clever fingers sliding underneath her shift before he sat up., pulling her flush against her and raising the garment over her head, her arms raising as the material slipped free before he tossed it away. Rowan sat on his lap, shivering slightly despite the warmth of the fire.

"It's alright," Lancelot whispered. His hands were warm, resting just beneath her breasts, and reaching up, Rowan took one of his hands in hers before turning to rest her head against his shoulder. With fumbling fingers she unlaced his tunic and shoved it up the silky skin of his torso, touching him with hesitant fingers when he wriggled free of his clothing, his breeches joining his boots and tunic, until they were both bare before the firelight.

"That won't fit," she blurted at the first sight of his arousal, but with a smile, he rolled on top of her. Clever fingers slipping between her legs, his mouth hot and sweet against her mouth, her neck, her breasts. When he felt her buck against his hand he covered her and pushed inside, muffling her cry of pain with his mouth. He kept himself still, steady, holding back his desire until she moved against him, and then there was nothing but her.

Rowan closed her eyes, tried not to bite Lancelot's shoulder too hard and gave herself up to him. He was hot within her, his fingers gentle as they stroked the sensitive flesh between her legs, and before long she was sobbing his name over and over, her fingers digging deep into the skin of his back, her world narrowed to the feel, the taste, the weight of him above her. When she shuddered and felt the rush of pleasure consume her, he joined her, crying out harshly, his muscles tensing marble hard. With a sigh, he rolled onto his side, taking her with him. Brushing her sweaty hair from her face, he traced her cheek with a gentle finger.

"Are you alright?"

Rowan blinked slowly before nodding. It had hurt a little, but the pleasure had far outweighed the pain. Lancelot pulled her closer to him, kissing her forehead and looking at her as though he were trying to see into her soul. Before she could say anything , he took her hand and laid it upon his chest, letting her feel the steady thump of his heart beneath the skin.

"Yours, Rowan," he said sleepily. "Be gentle."

The knowledge of what he meant flooded through her, and Rowan smiled gently before kissing him chastely and snuggling back against his chest.

"I'll keep you safe," she whispered. Lancelot didn't answer, but he pulled her closer still, and despite the horrors of the previous night their dreams were deep and peaceful.

**A/N: Thanks to everyone who read/reviewed the last chapter. Sorry Nil, no MP in this chapter (somehow it doesn't lend itself to smut lol - oh and peach page you are evil, that whole getting jiggy with it comment kept making me giggle when I was trying to write angsty stuff ;)). A quick plug - if you like Lancelot fics then Sticklebatz's Eternal Knight is well worth a read - sexy Lancelot characterisation, an OC that isn't a mary sue and all round greatness ( although she'll probably be very embarrassed for me writing this. Ha, I don't care, spread the love for good fics say I!). **


	31. Chapter 31

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

One for sorrow,

Two for joy.

Three for a girl,

Four for a boy.

Five for silver,

Six for gold,

Seven for a secret never to be told.

Old English nursery rhyme.

_One for sorrow, two for joy. _There were more than two magpies fluttering black and white against the pale morning sky, but Rowan chose to ignore them. She had never been very good at remembering the verses, although she saluted a single bird to ward off ill luck without even thinking about it. Alyce had liked the poem however, and it was with a bittersweet smile that Rowan sank to her knees beside her sister's grave. Autumn had tossed her bright head, scattering leaves over the graveyard and the grass was still damp with dew, but Rowan did nothing to tidy the graves of the men and women that surrounded her. _Time passes, _she thought to herself. _Better to tend to the living rather than the dead; Alyce would have understood. _Nonetheless she brushed her hand over her sister's grave and touched the dew to her lips before walking away. Her sister knew her secrets now. Her sister knew of wolves and treachery, of love and despair. _They would have a lot to talk about in the next life_, Rowan mused as she made her way back to the fort.

Lancelot waited for her at the cemetery gate and took her hand wordlessly when she offered it. He had kept his own council regarding the graves that he had visited, and Rowan did not pry. Squeezing his fingers gently, she smiled when he drew her closer and kissed the top of her head.

"Did you see the magpies?" he asked finally breaking the silence.

"The magpies?" Rowan shrugged. "Yes I did. I thought it was only Tristan who cared to notice birds though," she added teasingly. "Have you been taking lessons from him?"

"I don't care, I merely counted," Lancelot retorted. "There were four."

"Alright." Giving the knight a questioning look, she looked at him with concern when he stopped , obviously troubled. "Are you alright?" Running her eyes over him, she felt a shiver of fear. Lancelot had escaped with only a few nasty bruises from his encounter with the werewolves, but he had hit his head hard when his horse had fallen and he certainly wasn't making much sense. "I think you should see Tibor when we get back."

"Tibor?" he laughed and shook his head at the suggestion. "I'm fine, Rowan, stop worrying. It's you that I'm concerned about." When she merely looked confused, he continued. "Four magpies - you must know the poem. Llynya sings it to Taran often enough "Four for a boy?" "

"I know it." Smiling mischievously, she grinned. " You listen to Llynya's nursery rhymes? Shall I ask her to teach me some to lull you to sleep."

Lancelot let out a sharp breath of irritation, some of his old arrogance returning. "If you have the energy to sing before sleeping then I must be doing something wrong." He glanced down at her and stifled a smile when her cheeks flushed. "I do seem to remember being told how you fell asleep in the tavern not two days ago, however."

"Vanora promised she wouldn't.." Rowan exclaimed. Rolling her eyes when he looked at her with amusement, she pretended to be annoyed before letting him take her in his arms and kiss her deeply. Arching into him with a sigh as his hands cupped her bottom and wrapping her legs around his waist, it took a moment for them both to realise that they were not alone.

"Hello." Nine, Bors' seven year old daughter emerged from the copse nearby and trotted over to them, the red hair flopping over her face doing nothing to hide the curiosity in her eyes. "Are you mating with each other?"

Rowan disentangled herself from Lancelot as quickly as she could, not daring to look at him. The child smiled - she knew both the knight and the girl from the tavern and had no fear of them. Holding out her hand she uncurled her fingers and revealed the little slow worm that she had caught in the meadow. "I found it by the water trough, I'm going to call it Daisy. She's pretty isn't she?"

"She's very.. Nice," Rowan said, trying to think of something intelligent to say. "Lancelot was, er, cold and I was giving him a cuddle to warm him up."

"No you weren't." Nine gave the older girl a pitying look. "That's how babies are made. Mum explained ages ago, if you ask her she'll tell you too probably. But keep your petticoats down until you are at least sixteen or she'll tan your hide." She looked at Rowan appraisingly. "It'll be alright for you I expect though, 'cause you're quite old."

"Thank you , Nine." Well aware that Lancelot was struggling to control his mirth, Rowan patted the young girl on the shoulder. "Speaking of your mother, are you sure that you should be out here on your own?"

Nine squirmed and shot a guilty look towards the fort. "The king said it was safe now, and Six and Seven are so noisy that everything runs off faster than I can catch it."

"Nonetheless, she'll be worried if she knew you were out here alone," Rowan said firmly. "You've found a new pet, I expect it'll need settling into its new home."

Giving her a dubious look, Nine slipped the slow worm into her pocket and hurried off. "You won't.." she started, sliding to a halt and giving the knight and his lady a wary look.

"As long as you get back home as fast as you can, we won't say a word," Lancelot replied dryly. "But I'd hurry if I were you."

Nine gave a quick smile before scampering down the hill, dodging past a couple of guards and heading towards the house that Vanora and Bors shared.

"Imagine having eleven of those to cope with," Rowan almost whispered.

"I know." Running his hand over Rowan's hair, Lancelot smiled ruefully. "But she did have a point - one that I was trying to bring up before we were interrupted."

His dark eyes were almost black, and realising what he meant, Rowan felt her stomach clench tight. "You want me to find you a slow worm?" she asked in attempt at humour.

"I want a family," he replied honestly. " I want a family with you if you'll have me. I want to wake up with you every morning, watch your hair turn grey and see you blush when our children ask us what mating means."

"It means that it's a weekday, or a weekend day when you are concerned," Rowan whispered. Looking into his eyes, she saw the fear there and the hope, and felt such a burst of joy shiver through her that she giggled. "What are you asking me?"

He looked at her a little uncomfortably. "You know already don't you?"

"Perhaps." She smiled slowly, "but I'd like to hear you say it."

"As you wish." Taking a deep breath, Lancelot tipped Rowan's chin up and met her eyes. "I love you, Rowan. Marry me."

"I think I will at that," she replied with a smile, brushing her lips against his. "Us old people must grab onto happiness before we wither away altogether."

"I think we might have a few years left," Lancelot murmured. Picking her up, he carried her down to the fort and held onto her tightly when she wriggled with gleeful embarrassment, past Vanora who rolled her eyes, Llynya who giggled, and several soldiers who pretended not to notice. Dropping Rowan onto the bed, he kicked the door shut and smiled when she tugged his tunic over his head and dragged him towards the bed, opening herself sweetly, willingly and making him forget that there had ever been a time when he had been without her.

**A/N: One more chapter to go then we're done. Thanks to everyone who reviewed the last chapter, sorry for not replying, but hopefully a quick, if short, update makes up for it : ) **


	32. Chapter 32

**Disclaimer: nothing you recognise belongs to me.**

**Epilogue.**

**Fifteen years later.**

"It's true!" Godric giggled as he trotted beside his mother, his face alight with mischief. "Sir Tristan found Taran in the stables with Alyce! Alyce was yelling so loud that you could hear her all the way over from the wall. Taran didn't say anything, but that's 'cause Tristan had a knife against his throat and he probably couldn't speak. Then sir Gawain came and there was lots of shouting, and aunt Vanora threw a bucket of water over them and they were all quiet after that. Lucy took Alyce home, but she looked really angry with her dad and tried to throw a bridle at him but he caught it., and Dagonet says she…"

Rowan stifled a grin as she looked down at her eight year old son and tried to settle her face into a disapproving expression before interrupting him.

"It's not nice to gossip about people," she said reprovingly. "You wouldn't like it if people talked about you behind your back would you?"

"Mae talks about me behind my back," Godric replied crossly, his dark eyes narrowing. "But it's alright because I told Five that she fancies him and now she goes all red and tries to hide when she sees him."

"That wasn't very nice," Rowan chided. Although it did go some way to explaining why Llynya's daughter had taken to hiding in the kitchen whenever the handsome young boy entered the tavern, she mused.

"Dad said that you should meet your enemies head on," her son replied confidently. "Like if someone hits you then you should hit them back twice as hard. Mae talked about me so I talked about her only more. It works too - Mae hasn't told anyone that I eat worms for ages."

"Well that's all well and good, but I don't think embarrassing girls was quite what he meant when he told you that," Rowan said carefully. _And I'll be having a good long talk with your father when he gets home,_ she thought to herself. Leading her son through the courtyard, she smiled at Lucy who was marching out the tavern, a broken jug in one hand, the other grasping her son's arm firmly.

"Oh thank the Gods," the blonde girl sighed in relief, relinquishing the boy. "Rowan, do you want another son? This is the third tankard Dagonet's broken this week. I don't think I can afford to keep him."

"I'll pass, thanks," Rowan said with a grin, releasing Godric who immediately ran over to the other boy. "I might yet have another of my own in a few months." Patting her swollen belly, she ambled over to her friend. "Be back before dark," she warned her son who gave a half hearted wave of acknowledgement before following Dagonet to the stables.

Lucy rolled her eyes. "I'd say wish for a girl, but they're as much trouble."

"So I've heard." Taking her friend's hand, she led her into the tavern and sat down on one of the benches, smiling a thank-you when Nine bustled over and placed a jug of ale and two tankards on the table beside them. "What's this about Alyce and Taran?"

Lucy "harrumphed" and shoved her long hair over her shoulder. "I'm surprised you have to ask - the Woads in the north forest probably heard them. "Bloody stupid getting caught like that."

"Tristan had to find out sooner or later," Rowan said reasonably. With a giggle, she shot her friend a sly look. "Did he really put a knife to Taran's throat?"

"It wasn't his throat," Lucy said darkly. "Believe me, had Van not put her foot down then Llynya would be waiting until Mae and Kendric come of age before she has any hope of grandchildren."

"Ah. And Alyce?"

"Threw a hissy fit, did the usual throwing herself on the bed and sobbing until Tristan relented and went to comfort her, and had slipped out the window before he'd had time to lock the door behind him."

"Business as usual then," Rowan said with a smile. "Still, she could do a lot worse than Taran - he's a nice lad."

Lucy laughed. "Oh, believe me, I know. And as a bonus, I'll get Llynya as a sister- in -law, and since she's refused to eat my food since that incident with the stew, I won't ever have to cook at family gatherings ever again."

"How romantic," Rowan replied dryly.

"Plus they make a good couple and they're obviously in love," Lucy added after a moment. "Speaking of which, what has happened to Mae? She keeps scurrying into the kitchen like a startled rabbit whenever Five comes in. Have they had a falling out? I know she's been mooning after him for a while now."

Rowan shifted uncomfortably. "Let's just say someone might have informed Five of that particular secret."

"Informed?" Reading her friend's expression, Lucy laughed out loud. "Godric's only eight years old and he's already making women blush - he definitely takes after his father."

"That he does." Rowan smiled as Llynya entered the tavern. Her hair was greying at the temples, her body stockier than it had been in her youth, but her smile was as sweet as ever. Walking over to her friends, she settled down on a chair with an exaggerated sigh.

"I'm not sure that I should be talking to you," she said to Lucy. "Gawain is most unimpressed at Tristan trying to turn his son into a eunuch."

"And Tristan is unimpressed at your son trying to ravish his daughter," Lucy retorted with a smile.

"Ravish?" Llynya snorted. "He'd be lucky - Gawain's been teaching her how to defend herself since she was six. Remember that soldier who tried to put his hand up her skirts? His nose is still crooked."

"I'd say it was a good match all round," Kyrie said, wiping her hands on a dishcloth as she came out of the kitchens. "Arguing works for some couples, just look at Bors and Vanora." Dragging a chair over to the other group, she laughed when Lucy gave a mock shudder.

"Yes, well, love Van as I do, I really don't want eleven grandchildren thank-you very much. Just wait until Kendric is old enough to start courting," she warned her friend. "Galahad might be good natured, but just see what happens when he's faced with irate parents convinced his son is trying to steal their daughter's virtue."

"Kendric knows better than that," Kyrie said placidly. "After watching Tristan and Gawain yelling at each other the other day he says he's going to become a monk."

Rowan snorted. "Let's see if he changes his mind once he gets a little older."

"Oh I'm not worried." Kyrie helped herself to a mug of ale. "Since he spent a good five minutes oggling the baker's assistant's cleavage when she was mopping up yesterday, I haven't given up on the prospect of grandchildren."

All four girls laughed at that, although they fell silent when the clatter of hooves upon cobblestones signalled the return of Arthur and his knights. Getting to their feet, they hurried to the courtyard, and greeted their men. Kyrie yelping as Lancelot swept her into his arms, Llynya wrapping her arms around Gawain and giggling when he whispered in her ear.

From the stables Godric and Dagonet watched their respective parents embrace and grimaced in disgust.

"Eeew," Godric cringed as Rowan giggled when Lancelot picked her up and kissed her deeply. "I'm never going to get married - not ever."

"Me neither," Dagonet said fervently , closing his eyes when Tristan threw his horse's reins at a stable boy and embraced his wife. "When I grow up I'm going to be just like my dad, only live in a house where I don't get told off for being muddy or swearing, even though dad does it all the time. And there won't be any girly kissing and cuddling."

Godric nodded in agreement. "Except if there are monsters under the bed."

"Except for that," Dagonet acknowledged. "But other than that, which doesn't count anyway, 'cause mum says that cuddles kill monsters, I'm going to be a scout and just be brave and fight bad things."

"Me too," Godric said thoughtfully. "But I'm going to be a knight like dad, only I'm going to have three swords not two."

"You've only got two hands though," Dagonet pointed out. "What are you going to do with the other blade?"

Godric blinked. "One'll be, er a spare," he said eventually. Sliding off the hay bale that they had been perched upon, he looked up at his friend. "Jols' cats had kittens yesterday, do you want to go and see them?"

Dagonet nodded, jumping down and following the other boy. Together they hurried outside, exchanging revolted looks when they passed their parents, and headed for far more interesting diversions.

The End

**A/N: Well there we have it - it's a nice feeling to finish this story, but also quite sad. I won't be writing anything else in this series, so I'm saying goodbye to Llynya, Lucy, Kyrie and Rowan along with the ridiculously long list of other characters in this series. I expect that I'm probably saying goodbye to most of my readers and reviewers too, as I'll mostly be writing in other fandoms from now on. Thank you so much to everyone who read, reviewed and encouraged me over the three stories - seriously, I've been helped by so many people; I was nervous when I first put my work on the internet, but to people a little wary doing the same, I'd say go for it. I've "met" so many lovely people on here.**

**Anyway, enough rambling. If you've got this far then thanks for reading - I hoped you enjoyed reading the story, I certainly had fun writing it!**

**Best wishes and happy writing,**

**Jo (Homeric)**


	33. Chapter 33

**A/N Sorry, not really an update, but for those who have followed Llynya's Song, Faithless and Fragile, the very clever Symphonia-Angel-Luna has made a video for the trilogy. The link is on my profile page.**


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